


we're still hanging by a thread (and I'm not letting go again)

by cywscross



Series: Tumblr Prompts 2015 [8]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Break Up, Dark Stiles, Eichen | Echo House, Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, POV Peter Hale, Post-Season/Series 04, Prompt Fill, Slash, Torture, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-08 21:06:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3223427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <strong>bxdcubes asked: Oooh, in that case, I'd love #25. Presumably dead with steter because I am in love with your angst. (And don't feel guilty! I know writing prompts can take time). Thank you!</strong>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nezstorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nezstorm/gifts).



> I've cycled through like three different plots before settling on this one, mostly because I got the first part finished. It should be two parts but the second is threatening to be even longer than this one, and there will be even more angst and lots of Steter times:) Hope you like!

The last thing Peter sees before Scott and Derek drag him into Eichen House is the look of hollow-eyed numb betrayal on Stiles’ face, and it feels a lot like a knife to the gut. He knows he should say something – anything – but he’s drooping with the weight of wolfsbane in his system, and the words get stuck in his throat, and then he’s hauled away before he can even think of a way to fix it.

To apologize. Because this was never what he wanted.

 

* * *

 

Peter spends the first three months in Eichen House expecting Stiles to show up sooner or later, if only to rant at him and accuse him of using Stiles, lulling the boy into a false sense of security around Peter just so the smartest of Scott’s little pack wouldn’t pick up on Peter’s deal with Kate.

(But that isn’t true. Peter didn't step in after Stiles was freed from the Nogitsune’s clutches for anything other than Stiles, and he _needs_ Stiles to know that, to know that Peter may have fought Scott down in Mexico to take back the Alpha power that should rightfully belong to the Hales, may have partnered up with _Kate Argent_ to do it, but he would never have laid a finger on Stiles.

On hindsight though, perhaps that would've hurt less, if Peter simply knocked him out or clawed him or even killed him. To go behind Stiles’ back like he did – to choose a bid for power over keeping Stiles – undoubtedly left wounds of their own, deeper than anything Peter could've physically done to him, and largely invisible to the rest of the world, but there all the same.)

Stiles never does come.

 

* * *

 

The first visitor Peter gets is Scott himself, somewhat tired-looking, and there to pick Peter’s brain about the newest threat to Beacon Hills. Peter sneers and taunts the Alpha, and ends up dropping a couple hints, but that’s it. Scott is not Stiles, he doesn't even have the good sense to bargain for the information, and Peter has little interest in playing nice with the rest of the group.

(He wants to ask about Stiles though, about whether or not the boy is having those screaming nightmares again, panic attacks again, about how he’s doing and how much does he not want to have anything to do with Peter again, and if maybe – just maybe – he’ll consider coming to visit Peter soon.

But that gives too much of himself away, so Peter says nothing in the end.)

Scott leaves, crimson-eyed and frustrated, and Peter gives himself a mental pat on the back for being able to rile the True Alpha up so much even while drugged to the gills on wolfsbane.

 

* * *

 

It’s another two months before Peter receives another visitor. He only knows by counting the meals each day, simply for lack of anything better to do.

It’s the newest wolf this time, the Dunbar boy, and Peter almost laughs at how nervous the pup looks, of both his surroundings _and_ Peter. But he’s apparently smarter than McCall because after a round of unproductive twenty questions about something that Peter suspects is a kelpie based on the description that Liam’s brought him, the kid huffs with irritation before asking what Peter wants in exchange for a straight answer.

(Peter wants Stiles. He misses the boy like one would miss a limb, and yes, the pack bond he had with Stiles is frayed to the point where he’s afraid to so much as prod at it for fear of severing it altogether, but he still doesn't understand why the boy hasn't come yet. If nothing else, surely Stiles would at the very least want to confirm Peter’s motives for himself?)

Peter bares his teeth in a mockery of a smile. He can no longer extend his fangs but the expression on his face still makes Liam flinch a little. It’s mildly satisfying.

“My own... _room_ ,” Peter drawls sardonically. “Away from Valack. Go tell your precious Alpha my terms; if he meets them, I’ll tell you what I know about your latest problem.”

The kid looks like he wants to ask why Peter wants to get away from Valack, but he doesn't dare in the end, and that’s how that meeting comes to a close.

Three days later, Peter is shuffled over to an empty cage of his own with a cot and blankets and no cellmate. Fifteen minutes after that, Liam returns, and Peter loftily divulges what he knows about the kelpie.

It’s a small victory, but in Peter’s current position, he’ll take what he can get.

 

* * *

 

Two and a half months later, Peter gets another visitor. This time, it’s Derek. It makes him wonder if Scott is cycling through his entire pack just so he won’t have to come see Peter himself.

(He wonders when it will be Stiles’ turn, if that’s the case.)

Derek doesn't start talking right away, glowering at him with scrunched eyebrows and a few additional frown lines on his face instead, so, nothing new.

“Good to see you too, Nephew,” Peter greets him dryly. Of all the wolves that have come to visit, Derek would be the most observant, not that that’s saying much, but it’s still enough for Peter to make an extra effort towards seeming entirely unconcerned and nonchalant. Otherwise, Derek would probably spot the way the wolfsbane in his system is making his very bones ache badly enough that it’s a struggle to even sit up straight.

And Peter loathes showing weakness in front of anyone he doesn't trust.

Derek grunts and glowers some more before shoving a file across the table for Peter to flip through.

“They’ll let you have a shower every day, as well as a shave every three days, and I’ll bring you a few books,” Derek growls out. “Now tell me everything you know about this.”

So rude. But the deal is nice, so Peter refrains from commenting, and gets down to business instead.

“I’d say you’re dealing with fire salamanders,” Peter’s lip curls before he continues explaining what they are and what they can do.

“I believe I’ll tell you how to kill them after you fulfill your end of the deal, Derek,” Peter finishes with a sharp smirk, and promptly gets a scowl for his efforts. His nephew doesn't argue though, nodding curtly instead as he stands and gathers everything up again.

He turns to leave, only to stop before looking back. There’s something strange in his expression. Peter feels his metaphorical hackles rise in response.

“I thought,” Derek starts abruptly, quiet and condemning. “I thought Stiles honestly meant something to you.”

Peter goes very, very still.

“He was seventeen and he’d just been possessed,” Derek continues relentlessly. “He looked like death had warmed over, and he was a walking zombie most of the time. And I didn't like it when you started spending so much time around him because I know you, and altruistic is something you've never been. But then he started getting better, he looked like he was sleeping again, eating regularly again, and he looked happier when you were around, actually happier than I’ve ever seen him since I met him, so I thought, for once-”

He breaks off, and disbelief and rage war for dominance across his features. “I thought you _liked_ Stiles. That’s what you've always said. But then you all but rip out his heart, and for _what_? Power? With _Kate_? You-”

Derek cuts himself off again, and this time, he only shakes his head and scrubs a weary hand over his face before taking his leave without another backwards glance.

Peter doesn't say a word as the guards lead him back to his cell. He doesn't say a word even when the books are delivered and Derek comes back for the information. Peter writes it down for him, not even bothering to sit down, and as soon as he’s done, he lets the guards escort him back to his prison again.

It is nearing the end of October. It didn't quite register before, but Stiles should be eighteen and in university by now. They even talked about it once, a few weeks before everything fell apart. About where Stiles would want to go for college, and if maybe Peter would like to follow if Stiles ends up leaving town.

His wolf howls, long and mournful.

(Stiles does not visit.)

 

* * *

 

Stiles likes kisses. It’s one of the things that Peter loved to indulge in quite a bit once their relationship inevitably took a turn in that direction. More than once, when Stiles woke up from a night of terrors and didn't feel like getting up to face the world, they would spend half the day in bed watching movies and generally lazing around, dropping kisses on each other and cuddling until the light returned to Stiles’ eyes, and Peter would be allowed to get out of bed to make some food for the boy.

And Stiles is almost as tactile as a werewolf too, just not with people he doesn't trust, which amounts to approximately 99.99% of the world’s population. But he trusted Peter, and he’d let Peter hold him through panic attacks and the increasing number of nights they spent together, and ground him during the day with a hand on the back of his neck or arms around his waist. And once they were that comfortable with each other, it was only natural for Peter to scent-mark Stiles until the boy smelled like him all the time. Until they smelled like each other.

It was never sexual, their interactions, nothing beyond the kisses. The Sheriff knew of Peter’s presence, something that was a bit difficult to hide from him since Peter insisted on being around as much as possible. He wasn't going to jeopardize his position at Stiles’ side just to get into the boy’s pants a little early. Besides, Stiles wasn't ready for that yet, not after being violated by a thousand-year-old fox spirit for weeks on end. For a long time immediately after the Nogitsune’s departure, Stiles would flinch away even from his friends and family, watching them all with haunted eyes like he thought even touch might leave him bereft of his autonomy once again.

(Peter can understand that. All those doctors and nurses who used to touch him – professionally or _otherwise_ once that crazy bitch of a nurse realized what Peter is and what he could give her – while he could only struggle in vain against his own body. Hell, he felt the same even just _hearing_ about Meredith ransacking his mind without his knowledge before carrying out all those grief-induced thoughts he came up with when he was helpless and vulnerable and _abandoned_ , and then the good Sheriff had the gall to blame him for it. Peter nearly snapped the girl’s wrist when she dared to touch him, almost lunged and sunk his claws into the Sheriff when that gun was pointed so close to his head, right up until Stiles blew in through the door, looking ready to stab everyone who got within arm’s length of either of them, and swept Peter out of the building and out of range of everyone he felt threatened by.)

So Peter was willing to wait for as long as Stiles needed, and in the meantime, he was perfectly happy with the hugs and touches and kisses, and just time, together.

It anchored his wolf, and Peter was _happy_ for the first time in nearly a decade, but then the temptation of power was dropped into his lap once again, and...

He has time to reflect, here in his cell, all the time in the world, and he thinks that between the Alpha power and _Stiles_ – now that he’s had a taste of both and has ended up with neither – it is Stiles he misses more, infinitely more, and it comes as nowhere near as big a surprise as it should. After all, power would've protected him, power would ensure that no one would ever be able to hurt him again, but Stiles...

Stiles was companionship and conversation, he was wit and banter, someone who depended on Peter and whom Peter could depend on in return, he was all the loyalty anyone could ask for, he was _Pack_.

Peter remembers the one time he wasn't cautious enough and got himself backed into a corner by several hunters. He didn't expect the Pack to come to his rescue, and they didn't. He didn't expect Stiles either, but Stiles did.

Stiles killed for him that day, all four hunters, and the boy didn't even blink after lowering his gun, only rushing to Peter’s side to fuss over him and yell at him and punch him in the nose when Peter cracked a joke about knights in plaid armour, but then he dragged Peter home and tended to his already healing injuries before bundling him into bed, and Peter was as stunned as he was elated that day.

That was also the first time he allowed himself to contemplate the idea of _Stiles_ and _mate_ and _future_ , because he thought he might finally have a chance of keeping Stiles for himself.

And then of course he went and threw all that out the window, and it is quite possibly the most stupid thing he has ever done in his entire life.

 

* * *

 

“Right, thanks then,” Scott grudgingly mutters after yet another negotiation of information. It’s been almost three months since the last time.

Scott stands to leave, Peter rising as well, and it’s out of his mouth before he can stop it. “Scott.”

Scott frowns, instantly suspicious, but he lingers. Peter’s jaw flexes. “...I’m surprised Stiles hasn't come by.”

Scott recoils, and then his expression immediately shutters. Peter inwardly bristles. He doesn't know what the kid is feeling; his sense of smell isn’t up to par these days, and it’s aggravating. All of his senses have been reduced to human at best.

“What does it matter?” Scott snaps back with far more venom than Peter has ever heard from him. “You're never getting your hands on him again.”

He makes to leave once more. Peter jerks forward a step without his brain’s conscious consent. “These meetings are tedious,” He tries to rally, tries to recover his second’s loss of composure. “Stiles would be so much more pleasant to deal with. At least he’s entertaining.”

Peter knows he’s made a mistake when Scott’s eyes go hard as flint.

“Yeah, _entertaining_ ,” Scott spits out, eyes flashing red. “That was all he ever was to you, wasn't he? And to think, he actually liked you back. _Trusted_ you. Do you have any idea how lucky you were? Stiles doesn't trust people in general. He doesn't let them get close, not really. But he let you in and he trusted you as much as he would his dad or my mom or me, and all you were doing all along was- was _fucking with him_.”

Scott’s hands ball into fists, and when he relaxes them again, his claws are unsheathed, and there’s blood on his palms. Something settles over his expression, and it takes a moment for Peter to identify the fury and grief and bitter resignation on the boy’s face.

Something cold trickles down his spine.

“You won’t see him again,” Scott repeats, and there’s a harsh finality coupled with a vicious sort of triumph in his words. “Because he’s dead.”

 

* * *

 

Peter stares. For a long moment, it’s all he can do because his mind simply refuses to compute. His wolf is completely silent. “...What?”

Scott’s lips peel back to reveal a hint of fang. “You heard me – Stiles is _dead_.” The Alpha bites that out like a curse. Like he wants it to _hurt_. “After you stabbed us all in the back and we threw you in here, he was- he was already in a bad way. And then the Sheriff-”

Scott’s voice goes tight, and he has to pause and swallow for a second. There’s a rushing noise in Peter’s ears, and when the kid starts talking again, he can barely hear it.

“The Sheriff died, he was- he was killed, fighting the latest mons-” Scott stops, and this time he doesn't try again. Instead, he steps away from the table, and the anger is back, smothering the sorrow. “Stiles killed himself. He overdosed on-”

“You’re lying.” Peter doesn't recognize his own voice. It is deadly calm but guttural, and he doesn't know how he manages that when he can feel himself shaking like he’s about to fly apart. His wolf is still silent. Everything in his head is silent except-

 _“Stiles is dead_.”

“You're _lying_ ,” He says again, louder, and Scott stiffens from whatever he sees or smells on Peter.

 _“You're lying!_ ” This time, his voice comes out in a roar, and just like that, something in him snaps, like a delicate chain pulled beyond its capacity. His wolf surges up and takes over, and Peter lets it as he flings himself over the table straight at Scott, snarling and scratching in a crazed frenzy that he hasn't felt since he was confined in a coma.

He doesn't care that he’s attacking an Alpha. He doesn't care that he’s pumped full of wolfsbane.

He doesn't know if he speaks ( _shouts, screams_ ), only that there is a red haze of agony fogging his view that makes him feel like his heart’s been wrenched out of his chest, but that’s alright because he can feel skin and blood underneath his fingernails too, he can feel claws digging into his own body in return, and he relishes it. There is nothing complicated about violence and pain, and like this, he has no need to think.

He claws and bites at anything he can reach, at the body wrestling with his, at the hands trying to yank him back and pin him down, raging, raging, raging at the world and wanting nothing more than to burn it to the ground until everything has been reduced to rubble and corpses.

He doesn't even feel the prick of a needle in his arm.

And he doesn't know when his body sags, muscles no longer working, and everything goes blessedly dark.

 

* * *

 

They've upped his wolfsbane dosage permanently. Everything is fuzzy, and Peter trips over thin air whenever he has to get up to use the toilet.

He doesn't care. At least in this state, it makes it hard to think. To feel.

Stiles is dead. Peter doesn't believe it. He _can’t_ believe it because he would've felt it, wouldn't he? Stiles was- _is_ his anchor, and while it’s true that he’s already felt the bond between them gradually unravel until it’s hanging by a thread, surely he’s not so far gone on these godforsaken drugs that he can’t even tell the difference between a living packmate and a dead one? He would've felt it if Stiles died _killedhimselfdeaddeaddead_ -

He needs to stop thinking. He rolls onto his side, facing the wall, and cracks his head against the cold surface. Even the pain is muted, distant, and it’s not the first time he’s done it.

But it does the job. His thoughts drift. For a while, he doesn't think of anything. He and his wolf – shackled down and stifled – both float like they're lost at sea and trying to drown.

And then, like all the other times, he comes back, and everything is still the same. Stiles is dead. The shredded newspaper that someone took pity (or liked a cruel joke) and brought for him is lying on the floor. The headlines proclaim the death of the Sheriff and the date of the funeral, just over seven months ago.

But Stiles can’t be dead too. Peter’s boy is strong. He kept living even after the Nogitsune when a possession like that would've left anyone else an empty husk of a person in the long-term care ward.

But Stiles had Peter. And Peter betrayed him and left him all alone. He knows Stiles. He knows how much the boy hates being alone, how lonely Stiles has always been after his mother died despite having his father and Scott. He knows how much Stiles depended on Peter to always be there. He knows the boy’s insecurities and fears, and he knows his strength and his intelligence.

And he knows Stiles’ smiles, the genuine ones, rare and small and crooked, and he knows he’s never going to see them again.

Peter slams his head against the wall once more. He thinks there’s a smudge of blood on the tile, but mostly, his sight just goes blurry and grey, fading in and out, and he’s free once again to _stop thinking_.

For a while. And then he comes back yet again, and nothing has changed. Reality is still real, and Stiles is still dead.

Stiles is dead.

Peter drowns.

 

* * *

 

If it were anyone else who was responsible for Stiles’ suicide, Peter would torture them to death, draw it out like he never did to Kate, even if he had to break out of Eichen House and spend the rest of his life hunting that person down to do it.

But it isn’t anyone’s fault except Peter’s, he has no one else to blame but himself, and death would be far too easy an out for him. So he lives instead. It’s the only reason he gets up to eat and drink once or twice a day before retreating to his cot again. He doesn't even read anymore. He doesn't do anything besides go through the bare minimum of what he needs to do to survive.

He loses count of the days. There’s no point keeping track. Eventually, a guard comes by to announce that he has a visitor, and Peter allows himself to be half-led, half-carried out to meet whoever it is. It’s Derek this time, and he looks visibly taken aback and alarmed when Peter shuffles into the room.

Peter doesn't give half a fuck. He stays silent, waiting for Derek to stop staring, and when his nephew finally drops the newest file in front of him, Peter rifles through it with mechanical motions before picking up the pen and sluggishly jotting down what he knows. That takes a little longer than it would normally. His brain can’t work as fast in his condition.

And then, once he’s done, he pushes himself to his feet again with more than a little difficulty before stumbling off back towards the door. The guard joins him halfway there, and once Peter is locked in his cell again, he’s free to lie back down and do his best to forget.

 

* * *

 

The truth is – he never forgets, not even in his sleep.

 

* * *

 

“Is this real?”

Peter halts halfway through scrawling down the various ways to deal with a nest of vampires. His gaze lifts to blink dully at the True Alpha sitting across from him before glancing back down at the page in front of him. His memory isn’t as good anymore. He’s fairly certain he’s forgotten a couple points, but for the most part...

“Yes,” Peter replies flatly before returning to his list. He doesn't care whether or not Scott believes him, though why he would question the authenticity of today’s information is beyond him. Between now and that fateful day that Scott delivered that damning news, the Beacon Hills Pack has already used Peter’s knowledge another half a dozen times. It’s probably been at least half a year since that day; possibly a year. Maybe more. Maybe less?

Time is irrelevant these days. In Eichen House, Peter only exists. He’s long since stopped asking for something in exchange for what he knows about the supernatural, but on occasion, books and drawing paper and even a chessboard make their way into his cell without his input anyway.

He hasn't touched any of it except the chessboard. That, he hurled against the wall until the entire thing smashed into unrecognizable pieces.

“No,” Scott interrupts once more, and with a tired sigh, Peter drags his eyes up again. The kid’s brow is heavily creased, a frown that’s almost a scowl, mixed with that familiar puppyish confusion that Peter used to sneer at but now has no energy or willpower left to do so.

“I meant-” Scott gestures vaguely at Peter. “You've been... really out of it. Since I told you- um.”

The boy trails off, and he looks like he wants to drop the subject, which Peter wouldn't mind at all, but he doesn't. He continues watching Peter intently, and there’s something conflicted in his eyes.

Scott hasn't talked about Stiles since he told Peter about the suicide. Nobody has. Peter doesn't really understand why it’s being brought up now.

“Look,” Scott begins again, and then he sighs when Peter’s attention slips, gaze settling on some middle distance over Scott’s right shoulder. “ _Peter_.”

Peter stirs, blinks. He glances down at what he’s writing, and he can’t quite remember the rest anymore. He finishes the sentence he was working on before pushing everything back to Scott. And then he clambers to his feet. Meeting’s over.

“Peter!”

A hand grabs him by the elbow, and that of all things sparks something in him. He tears himself away and whirls back to face the perceived threat. His movements are appallingly clumsy, and when he bares his teeth, there are no fangs, but it’s enough to get Scott to back off, hands raised in a placating manner.

The guard by the far wall takes a step forward, hand already on the taser in his belt.

“It’s fine,” Scott calls out. “I just startled him.”

He turns back to Peter, whose head is spinning from his moment of instinctive panic.

(He has no one to watch his back anymore.)

“I don’t get it,” Scott grumbles, glaring at Peter like it’s his fault the boy is so slow on the uptake. Not that Peter can talk at the moment; he doesn't understand what’s going on either.

“I don’t get it,” Scott reiterates, an underscore of a growl added in this time. “I thought you said Stiles was just ‘entertainment’. What does it matter to you if he’s-” His expression spasms. “-dead?”

Peter stares emptily back at him. He doesn't even consider answering. It’s none of Scott’s business.

The boy blows out an annoyed breath. “Are you just- just faking this? So we’d feel sorry for you or something? What are you trying-”

Peter tunes him out. He wants this visit over and done with five minutes ago. He wants to return to his cell. Or is his allotted thirty minutes in the communal bathroom coming up? He didn't take a shower yesterday so he should probably go today. And he hasn't shaved in... a while. He should probably do that too. If today’s a shaving day. It may not be-

“Peter!”

Peter returns a clinical sort of focus on Scott. The Alpha’s scowling again. It’s tiresome. Peter wishes he would hurry up with whatever he wants.

“Just tell me one thing,” Scott says at last, and he sounds as exhausted of life in general as Peter feels. “Did Stiles ever mean anything to you? Honestly, Peter. Please.”

Perhaps it’s the uncharacteristic ‘please’ that does it, or perhaps Peter just wants to finish this conversation so he can skulk back to his solitude; either way, after a long minute, the words roll off his tongue, and each one tastes like ash.

“He was my anchor.”

Scott’s eyes widen. They even flicker down to Peter’s chest as if just hearing the steady thump of his heartbeat wasn't enough, as if he needs tangible proof.

But then he looks at Peter again, and his posture straightens. He examines Peter for another prolonged pensive moment before his jaw sets. He nods once, decisive and grim, and rather abruptly, Peter is startlingly reminded of the fact that Scott McCall is no longer a teenager, no longer a child.

Stiles wouldn't be either if he were still alive.

Peter doesn't wait for anything else Scott has to say. He turns and takes his leave. If he attacks the guard on the way back, maybe he’ll be tased into oblivion again.

 

* * *

 

When Peter sees Scott again, along with Derek, they’re helping him pack.

“Come on,” Derek mutters when all Peter does is sit on his cot and watch them with vacant, disinterested eyes as they finish stuffing the last of his belongings in a duffel bag. Are they even his?

His nephew touches his shoulder. Peter automatically twitches away from him, and Derek lets his hand drop back to his side.

“Come on,” Derek repeats, and there’s something odd in the tone of his voice, something Peter doesn’t recognize. “You're leaving.”

Peter doesn't get it, but when both Derek and Scott motion at the door a few more times, he gets up and follows them out.

 

* * *

 

The sunlight hurts his eyes. The fresh air makes each breath a struggle. The scents and sounds of wildlife and cars and people and nature all make him want to shrink back into the monotony of Eichen House.

It takes him the entire car ride back to his old apartment, the trip up the stairs, and Derek and Scott handing him a key and dropping off his bags just inside the doorway before Peter realizes that he’s been released.

The freedom is nowhere near as sweet as he once thought it would be.

 

* * *

 

For the first week after Peter has been escorted back to his apartment, he spends the majority of it lying in bed and never really going any further than the bathroom. The air is stale from dust and the lack of a living presence, but if he tries hard enough, Peter can still smell Stiles. It makes his wolf whine and whimper, and it makes his heart hurt.

Not enough to stop him from retrieving all the clothes he can dig up that used to belong to Stiles though. Seven shirts, three pairs of boxers, a pair of jeans, two pairs of sweatpants, a set of pajamas, a sweater with the BHHS logo on the front, and some well-worn mittens are all Peter can find, and he piles them all onto his bed before crawling in after them. He also locates Stiles’ favourite pillow, and that’s what he curls himself around, trying to drown himself in what remained of Stiles’ scent.

Nobody disturbs him. Derek and Scott left as soon as they seemed certain that Peter wasn't going to collapse or run away or go on a murderous rampage or whatever else ran through their imaginations, and no one else has stopped by ever since.

Eventually though, stomach cramps and thirst drive him from his bedroom, and with a low-grade headache throbbing behind his eyes as well as Stiles’ pillow still clutched to his chest, he straggles out to the kitchen for a glass of water and something to eat. Someone’s filled his fridge; judging by Derek’s scent, his nephew probably stopped by a day or two before he went to fetch Peter with Scott.

He feels... He doesn't know what he feels. He can feel the drugs’ effects leaving his body; the liquid wolfsbane’s one upside is that it isn’t addictive which means it doesn’t cause withdrawal, even after long-term use, so Peter doesn't have to deal with that at least.

He chokes down half a sandwich before wandering off again, ghosting from room to room without purpose. His entire life doesn't have much of a purpose anymore. He doesn't know what to do with himself.

Predictably, he meanders back to his bedroom, back to bed. The left side is his, which is where he lies down again. The right side hasn't been his since even before Stiles started calling this apartment home.

He thinks of Alphas, he thinks of Scott, he thinks of Argents, and he thinks of power. He finds he doesn't care about any of it.

(He wishes they left him in Eichen House. At least there, his only obligation was to remain in a cage.)

 

* * *

 

Lydia Martin comes by on a Monday. Peter hasn't seen her since before Mexico. He considers not answering, but she doesn't go away even after twenty minutes of him ignoring her persistent knocking, so he forces himself out of bed and to the door.

They stare at each for a while after he opens the door. Peter doesn't invite her in; Lydia doesn't ask.

“So,” The banshee breaks the silence first. “Scott wasn't kidding.”

Peter has no idea what she’s talking about. Then again, he doesn't have much of an idea what the entire McCall Pack is doing these days. Why did they release him in the first place?

He leans his weight against the doorframe. He’s already tired of this, and it’s barely been a minute and a half. “Is there something I can help you with, Miss Martin?”

Lydia’s lips purse. Then she reaches into her handbag and withdraws an old text, flipping it open to a bookmarked page.

Of course.

“We need this hybrid,” Lydia points to the depiction of a plant that Peter recognizes as a potent crossbreed of three different strains of wolfsbane.

He searches his memories. They’re slowly putting themselves back into order but some old details still escape him on occasion.

“There’s a jar of it in the vault,” Peter recalls at length. “It’ll be bright green with purple markings, maybe hidden behind some other things, but you can’t miss it. Get Derek to help you.”

There, he’s done for the day. If he’s lucky, maybe he’ll be done for the month. He takes a step back and begins closing the door. He pauses when one of Lydia’s ankle boots thuds against the wood.

Peter glances back out. Is she still not done? “What else?”

Lydia’s eyes narrow. One crimson nail taps idly against the spine of the book she’s holding. Just as Peter’s thinking about trying to close the door again, she speaks.

“I don’t care if you’ve really repented or if you regret what you did; I don’t care if you’re honestly suffering for it,” Lydia’s lip curls. “You deserve it. And you _never_ deserved Stiles.”

And with that parting remark, the banshee turns on her heel and stalks off, regal as a queen. She doesn't look back.

Peter doesn't move until he hears her car pull out of the parking lot, and then he quietly shuts the door before heading back to bed, hands tangling absently in one of Stiles’ shirt as he stares up at nothing.

“I already know that,” He tells the ceiling.

 

* * *

 

He spends his first full moon outside of Eichen House burrowing himself even further in Stiles’ scent.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, Peter gets his hands on a calendar and discovers the date. He’s been in Eichen House for about two years and five months, give or take a few days because he doesn't remember the exact date he was admitted, and nobody ever told him. He’s been out for a month and six days, and it’s mid-August right now, which would explain the ridiculous amount of sunshine.

It doesn't explain Derek and Scott sitting side by side on his couch that very same afternoon. They asked to come in first at least, and so long as they don’t enter his bedroom and doesn't stay for too long, Peter figures it’ll be alright.

They look nervous. And shifty-eyed. And somewhat defiant. And they smell a mix of agitation, guilt, and worry.

Peter really doesn't give a shit. If they have work for him to do, he’d like to have it now so that they can leave him alone.

“What?” He grounds out at last when five minutes tick by and nobody talks. The downside of the _lack_ of wolfsbane in his bloodstream – Peter is now actually aware of every second, and his mind can no longer stray as easily as it used to. “What is it this time? A dragon? The Fae? Satan?”

This is Beacon Hills; Peter has become resigned to the fact that any sort of crisis is wholly possible.

His nephew straightens in his seat at this. He looks at Peter, and there’s something very close to relief lining his expression. Inexplicably, Scott looks about the same. Peter doesn't get it. He’s not curious enough to try and puzzle it out.

His two guests trade meaningful looks next, an entire silent conversation that Peter never would've thought them capable of when they first started working together.

“Do you still want to be Alpha?” Scott asks out of the blue.

Peter stares blankly at him. Ah, interrogation then.

“No,” He denies, and he doesn't even think about lying for the sake of his reputation. He doesn't want anything anymore, and there’s no point hiding that.

Except Stiles. He’ll always want Stiles, but nobody can give him that.

“Do you still love Stiles?” Scott asks next, and Peter wouldn't be able to hide his flinch even if every part of him was chained down with wolfsbane.

He doesn't respond this time. That’s not something he’s willing to give. That answer is his and his alone, and no one and nothing will ever force it out of him.

Scott looks at him unblinkingly. Derek peers at him with something akin to wonder. Another minute passes. And then-

“Here,” Scott leans forward and slides a piece of paper across the coffee table.

Peter plucks it up. It’s an address, in Ithaca, New York. His mind mulls it over and comes to the likeliest of conclusions.

“You're kicking me out of Beacon Hills,” Peter states without emotion. They must want him at a known location but nowhere near this town so that he won’t be able to cause trouble for them.

“No,” Scott denies. His jaw works for a moment before he heaves a sigh. “There’s no... right way to say it, so I’ll just-” He nods at the piece of paper. “That’s where Stiles is.”

Peter doesn't react. He doesn't know how to react. “...I would've thought,” He works out slowly. “That Stiles would be buried beside his parents.”

He hasn't gone to the cemetery yet. Can’t bring himself to.

Scott grimaces and shakes his head. Derek rubs a hand over his mouth.

“ _That’s where Stiles is_ ,” Scott repeats more emphatically. “That’s where he lives. He’s still alive.”

 

* * *

 

Peter doesn't understand. All he knows is that he’s suddenly clenching the address in a white-knuckled grip, and he doesn't know what expression he’s wearing, only that it makes Scott wince and Derek look away.

“What?” He croaks out, and it’s an echo of how he reacted the day Scott told him- _told him_ -

“You _said_ ,” Peter suddenly _snarls_ , lunging forward and slamming a fist into the coffee table, shattering the glass beyond repair, and it’s the strongest reaction he’s had since _Scott told him_ \- “ _You_ _told me he committed suicide!_ ”

His wolf howls, and he feels like ripping the world apart. If this isn’t real, if this is just another lie, then the hope that it’s just given him – the hope that’s already hooking its claws into his heart – is going to destroy him.

“He did!” Scott barks back, on edge in the face of Peter’s spike of rage but remaining on the couch. Beside him, Derek is poised to leap up, just in case Peter attacks. “Or at least he tried, almost right after the Sheriff was buried, but we found him and got him to the hospital in time, and the doctors managed to save him. He should've gone into therapy, but he was eighteen, and it wasn't like any of us could stop him anyway. He’d find a way out if we tried to- to force him into anything.”

In his armchair, Peter seethes, and his wolfs bays for blood, but.

But he _needs to know_.

“After the hospital let him go,” Scott presses on hurriedly. “Stiles packed his bags, said he was leaving. I managed to convince him to at least leave a phone number, and he did, and then he disappeared for a year. I called him every week, and he only picked up a couple times, but – I don’t know – maybe moving around and just getting away calmed him a bit or something, because eventually, _he_ called _me_ , told me he was in New York, that he’d gotten into Cornell, and that he’d be settling down there. A few months down the road, he even gave me an address, in case of emergencies if my Pack and I ever needed a place to lie low, though other than that, he told me that he’d like to be left alone. We still talk over the phone once every two months or so, and we’ve Skyped twice-”

Scott cuts himself off as Peter swipes up one of the larger pieces of glass and launches it at the nearest wall. Derek’s features contort at the sound of impact, and both werewolves are as tense as coiled springs.

Peter rounds on them again. “If you’re lying to me _again_ , McCall-”

“You deserved it!” Scott growls in the same menacing, unforgiving tone as the one Lydia used. “You deserved every bit of it! You didn't see Stiles after what you did! He was a goddamn _shell_ , even worse than after the Nogitsune! I didn't even realize he depended on you so much until you threw him away for power! You made him think he could rely on you, and then you went and _broke him_ , and trust me, Peter, I wouldn't be giving you that address if I didn't know that Stiles is still just as miserable as he was after you betrayed us. After you betrayed _him_.”

Peter’s face drains of colour.

“I’m giving you a chance to fix it,” Scott hisses, eyes bleeding red. “Not for you but for Stiles, because he tries to hide it but I know he’s not getting any better without you, and if he stays like this for much longer, I don’t know if he’ll-”

He stops and doesn't continue. Everyone can fill in the blanks anyway.

Peter’s trembling as he sinks back into his chair. A part of him wants to tear Scott’s throat out. The rest of him wants – _needs_ – to go to Stiles.

He should've known. That pack bond, that dormant, tattered, fragile pack bond at the back of his mind, still exists. He convinced himself that it was just a figment of his imagination, just something conjured up by his mind to ease his desperation. But it isn’t, it’s still there, because-

Because _Stiles is alive_.

“If you hurt him-” Scott starts.

“I won’t,” Peter interrupts, and there’s more steel in his voice – more resolve – than even he’s ever heard from himself.

It seems to satisfy Scott at least, and Derek.

“He didn't... look too good the last time Scott was Skyping with him,” Derek tacks on just as he and Scott are leaving. “He doesn't talk much anymore. He’s changed.”

“He’s still alive,” Peter counters. “That’s good enough for me. I’ll handle everything else when it comes up.”

Derek eyes him for a long moment. “He might never- He’s not yours anymore.”

And doesn't that hurt. But Peter does deserve that.

“I’m still his though,” Peter says quietly, and it’s so honest it scrapes his throat raw.

Derek nods, Scott looks back one more time at him, and then they both take their leave.

Peter concentrates on breathing after they’re gone. Then he smoothes out the piece of paper still in his hand and sears the address into his mind.

Within eight hours, he’s packed and on a plane heading straight to New York.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kate decided to butt in when she had no business to, so now this fic has become longer than I intended it.

Flying to New York is easy, even if Peter does get some sideways looks from passengers and flight attendants alike. He’s shaved and cut his hair so that he looks more or less like he did before Eichen House, but he knows he’s on the too thin side, and also possibly like he’s just escaped from a stint in the hospital. Peter ignores them all and stays awake the entire flight.

Checking into a hotel once he gets there is also easy, though judging by the reflexive pitying look on the front desk agent’s face, he probably comes off as less charming and more desperate when he asks for a last-minute room. Well, whatever works. She gives him one, and that’s what matters.

Finding Stiles’ apartment is relatively easy too. It’s a nice place, simple and in a less populated area but comfortable-looking even from the outside, and it’s only a half-hour leisure walk from Cornell, a third of that time if you take the bus.

Stiles lives on the second floor at the very end in 220, so it’s a corner apartment with a good view of the stairs, and the porch is low enough for someone to jump off of and still land safely on the ground if they need a quick escape route. Stiles would have preventative measures already in place to stop someone climbing up the same way though.

Getting back in touch with Stiles on the other hand is infinitely harder.

It takes sixteen days of almost around the clock stakeouts from the park opposite the apartment before Peter even lays eyes on Stiles. This is mostly because Stiles doesn't come out even once during all of that time.

At the beginning, Peter hears the boy’s heartbeat first, muffled behind walls but so familiar that it _aches_. He passes by the stairwell a few times too, just to pick up a fresh whiff of Stiles’ scent, but he forces himself to move back to the park after a handful of minutes. There’s no sense in letting someone see him and making them suspicious of a stranger hanging around.

Still, he gets a little more anxious each day as he waits for Stiles to come out. It isn’t as if he can stride right up, knock on the door, and say hi. He knows that – eventually – that’s more or less what he’ll have to do, but until he gets an estimate of Stiles’ general mood, he’ll put it off for the time being. He’d be fortunate if he doesn't get set on fire again, especially since he’s fairly certain that Scott hasn't told Stiles that Peter’s been released, much less that he’s now here in New York. But he can’t stay away entirely either or he wouldn't have left Beacon Hills to begin with, so all he can do is hover nearby and wait for some sort of opportunity to present itself.

It isn’t normal for anyone to stay shut up indoors for so many days though, is it? Well, Peter did it, but he was fresh out of a prison where that was exactly what was expected of him, not to mention he was under the impression that Stiles was dead at the time so it wasn't like he was overly concerned about stretching his legs or something, or even his health in general.

Stiles though, Stiles should be out and about, with new friends maybe, or at his summer job perhaps. But the door never opens for sixteen days straight, and if Peter isn’t so vividly aware of Stiles’ heartbeat – mostly steady during the day but agitatedly unsteady during the night – he would think the boy isn’t there at all.

His waiting pays off though. Over two weeks in, at twelve-thirty at night, just as Peter is thinking of returning to the hotel for a nap before coming back early the next day, he hears the sound of a lock turning from Stiles’ apartment, and in a flash, he’s back behind a tree and surreptitiously peering out from behind it as the door swings open, and a figure steps out into the dim light of the second-floor landing.

 _Stiles_.

Peter sways forward before catching himself and pressing back into the wood behind him again. The surge of sheer _want_ that rushes up inside him is almost overwhelming in its intensity, and it takes all his self-control not to- to throw himself forward and cling to the boy and just soak himself in Stiles’ scent until no one will ever be able to tell the difference between it and his own again.

He can’t do that though. He doesn't have the right anymore.

So he swallows down the urge, but it’s impossible to tear his eyes away as Stiles locks the door behind him before shuffling for the stairwell.

And it _is_ a shuffle. His steps drag; not in a particularly loud way – in fact, Peter can barely hear them – but... weighed down, like Stiles can’t be bothered to lift his feet. He’s wearing a plain-coloured long-sleeved shirt that hangs loose on his frame, coupled with a pair of jeans and some sandals. His hair looks like it hasn't been combed since getting out of bed, and some of it is long enough to flop into his eyes as he descends the stairs. He moves with an odd dancer-like grace now though, and it makes Peter smile when he compares it to how the boy used to be able to trip over nothing.

However, when Stiles finally reaches the bottom step and passes under the glow of one of the streetlights dotting the parking lot, putting him in stark relief against the dark of the night, Peter unconsciously makes a soft, pained noise at the back of his throat.

Stiles looks... frail. He’s probably an inch or two taller than Peter by now, and he’s lean more than the lanky he used to be as a teenager, but his cheekbones are sharp in his face in a way that hints at hunger or a lack of regular meals instead of natural growth, and when Stiles reaches up to shove some wayward bangs out of his eyes, his sleeve slips down, and the bones in his wrist look worryingly birdlike, pale skin doing nothing to conceal how underweight he is. Worse still, the bags under his eyes look like permanent bruises, as if he hasn't gotten a decent night’s sleep in a very long time, which he probably hasn't since Peter has listened to Stiles’ heart hammering out nightmares for the past two weeks straight, and that’s only if Stiles tries to sleep at all.

Stiles heads directly for the sidewalk instead of a vehicle, and as he makes his way down the street, he sticks to the shadows like he’s instinctively trying to hide from any potential danger. There’s a weary slouch to his shoulders, and his jawline is tight with stress.

Peter feels sick. He did that, didn't he? He’s the one who reduced Stiles to this broken state, and it’s even worse than the aftermath of the Nogitsune because this is his fault.

And this time, he doesn't have the first clue how to go about putting Stiles back together yet again.

As Stiles continues walking, Peter follows from a careful distance. He knows better than anyone how much of a wolf Stiles can be, his instincts almost like a sixth sense for picking up anything out of the ordinary.

Their destination is apparently a convenience store, open twenty-four/seven. This late at night, there are only two cars in the parking lot, and practically nobody inside, so Peter stays outside. He has no desire to accidentally bump into Stiles in public and quite possibly turn the place into a battlefield.

After all, Stiles only has one default setting when he feels cornered – fight back and never stop fighting until either the threat’s dead or he’s dead. Seeing as Stiles is still alive, the boy’s had a perfect track record despite all the injuries he’s received in the process, and Peter isn’t about to go and gamble his luck against that. He’s desperate, not stupid.

Well, not when it comes to this anyway.

Stiles doesn't take long, twenty minutes tops, and then he’s back out again with several grocery bags in one hand, the other stowing his wallet back into his jeans.

Peter’s nose wrinkles when he catches a glimpse of all the microwavable meals stuffed in the plastic bags.

Stiles _enjoys_ cooking, he’s good at it too, and aside from the curly fry addiction, he’s careful about what he – and his father, and then later Peter – eats while still making his food delicious, yet there are currently enough frozen foods in those bags to keep someone alive for a month. Potentially one and a half since Peter highly doubts that Stiles eats three meals a day.

No wonder the boy looks as if a stiff wind could knock him over.

They go back to Stiles’ apartment after that. Stiles goes straight up and back inside while Peter wanders over to a park bench and sits down with a heavy sigh. He has a feeling that he won’t be seeing Stiles again until the new semester begins in September.

Stiles is... not well, to put it mildly.

And Peter doesn't know what to do about it.

 

* * *

 

He needs to meet with Stiles. Or at the very least, he needs Stiles to know he’s here without getting stabbed for his efforts. He can’t do anything from afar, or even in secret. He could drop off healthier food on the doorstep until the cows come home, but there would be no point to it if Stiles doesn’t eat it, and the boy isn’t anywhere near stupid enough to take food from an unknown source.

He needs to begin somewhere though, and if that beginning means biting the bullet and revealing himself to Stiles, then so be it.

If he’s lucky, he’ll get shouted at.

If he’s unlucky, well, at least he’ll have no problems jumping off the second floor if Stiles breaks out a lighter.

 

* * *

 

It’s a Thursday morning when Peter goes to see Stiles, three days after their midnight shopping venture. He’s thrown on a white Henley and an old pair of jeans from a few years back; hopefully, it’ll make him look a bit more harmless.

He feels ridiculous standing outside the door and dithering, trying to muster up the courage to knock like some teenage boy picking up his girlfriend for their first date while her parents are waiting inside with a shotgun.

But nothing’s going to get done if he just stands around doing nothing, and Peter’s been a lot of things but coward’s never been one of them. He takes a deep breath before releasing it just as slowly, and then he lifts a hand and raps twice on the door in front of him.

Instantly, Peter hears the way Stiles’ heartbeat spikes with something close to panic before it’s fought down to an elevated, uneasy rhythm. He doesn't hear the boy’s footsteps, so – after giving a handful of seconds – Peter knocks again. This time, there’s a rustle, the clink of a glass, and then – finally – footsteps, near silent and tentative at best.

There’s a peephole in the door, so Peter knows that Stiles won’t have to open up to know who’s waiting outside. He takes a step back and keeps his gaze level with the 220 on the door instead of staring back through the peephole. He makes sure his hands are in full view.

He knows the exact moment Stiles sees him. There’s a sharp intake of breath, a choking noise, and then a backpedalling of feet that ends with the sound of ceramic shattering on hardwood floor before the distinct mixture of wolfsbane and mountain ash reach his nose.

And then, because Stiles has never reacted to fear the way most humans do, because when Stiles is faced with monsters and madmen, he has never failed to throw down a challenge instead of run, the door is flung open in the next moment, and before Peter can blink, there’s a dagger at his throat that stings with wolfsbane when it nicks him, and if he were to push forward now, he knows that he won’t be able to cross the threshold.

Even ashen-faced and haggard, Stiles’ eyes are dark and wild and dangerous, and he is still as magnificent as Peter has always thought him to be.

“What are you doing here?” Stiles rasps out, the edge of his weapon digging further into the side of Peter’s neck. “ _What do you want?_ ”

Very deliberately, Peter averts his eyes and tilts his head to the side, baring the vulnerable line of his throat all at once. Peripherally, he sees the way Stiles’ lips part, and something about the boy’s expression _shakes_ , but the hand holding the dagger is still rock steady, and there’s absolutely no yield in his hard gaze.

“I asked you what you want,” Stiles hisses, and his other hand is fumbling for his phone. “Did you escape? Don’t think for even one fucking second that I'm above chaining you down with wolfsbane until Scott gets here to take-”

“Scott had me released,” Peter interjects quietly, hesitantly lifting his gaze to meet Stiles’ again. “I’ve been out for almost two months now.”

Stiles goes utterly still. His mouth twists into a bitter line, and it suddenly occurs to Peter that Stiles might take this news as a betrayal on Scott’s part.

“And you weaseled my address out of him.” It isn’t a question. A laugh trips out of his mouth, and it cuts like broken glass.

“He gave me your address,” Peter corrects. He’s silent for a moment. “...I thought you were dead.”

Stiles frowns at him. Peter thinks back to all those months he spent drifting through life and wishing he didn't have to.

“Scott told me you were dead,” He clarifies. “That you’d... committed suicide.”

A flinch ripples through Stiles’ frame. His knife wavers at last. Peter doesn't try to move away, not even when another line is sliced into his neck. He’s fairly certain it’s an accident this time.

They stand there, in a stilted silence that hurts. They used to be able to talk, even without words, but Peter listens now, strains his ears over the mismatched thump of their respective heartbeats, and he can’t hear a thing.

The dagger shifts. Stiles withdraws. Trickles of blood have already turned the neckline of his shirt to crimson, and the cuts will be slow to heal.

“And then you found out otherwise,” Stiles says on a resigned sigh.

His voice is deeper, Peter thinks from out of the blue. And this close, he can see the faint stress lines creasing Stiles’ features, and it seems unfair and cruel on one so young.

“Scott told me,” Peter repeats uselessly. “So I... I came here.”

Stiles’ hand braces itself against the doorframe. Peter has to physically stop himself from cringing when the boy just stares back with empty eyes, the light in them from before flickering out like guttered candles.

“What do you want then?” Stiles asks, gaze turning inward as if Peter’s already left. “Don’t think I’ll fall for anything you say a second time.”

“That’s not-” Peter cuts himself off, jaw working. He tries again. “I’m just here to... help. With whatever you’ll let me help with.”

He’s officially pathetic. He should've written a speech before coming here. That at least would have saved him face.

He gets a smile for his efforts, a jaded stretch of Stiles’ lips that conveys no humour.

“Yeah, just like the first time around,” The boy agrees cynically. “You wanted to help me then too.” His smile widens before thinning like he’s pressing his lips together to prevent them from trembling. “But you only used me to get the Pack to lower their guard. Just like the Nogitsune, huh? What a coincidence.

“But you know what they say, Peter,” His smile drops. “Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.” He takes a step back into the darkness of his apartment. His eyes look dead. “And no matter what you might think of me, I am nobody’s fool. You can take your ‘help’ to someone who wants it. Maybe they’ll even let you fuck them before you screw them over too. I know I wasn't particularly fun in that department when you were screwing with me.”

And with that, the door slams shut, the footsteps retreat, and then there is nothing.

Peter stares blankly at the wood. His wolf is whining at the back of his mind and won’t shut up.

It hurts to breathe, somehow. The ache starts in his chest and spreads down his arms, down to his gut, through his body, even settles behind his eyes.

He’s still bleeding, but the pain from that is an afterthought. He wishes the cuts were deeper. They would still hurt less than this.

He doesn't know how long he stands there before he forces his feet to move. It’s a minor miracle that nobody calls the police on him, what with his shirt partially soaked in blood, but he even makes it all the way back to his hotel room without bumping into anyone.

A blink, and he’s already out of the shower, his ruined shirt somewhere on the bathroom floor. He doesn't bother dressing himself beyond a pair of boxers that he fishes out from his luggage.

Another blink, and he’s in bed, all of Stiles’ clothes piled around him in a makeshift nest.

He buries his nose in Stiles’ pillow. If he closes his eyes and imagines really hard, he can almost convince himself that he’s back in his apartment in Beacon Hills with Stiles’ warm weight curled up beside him.

 

* * *

 

Peter goes back two days later. What else can he do? He already knew that Stiles wouldn't welcome him back with open arms, but he can’t just leave either.

He buys breakfast. Pancakes from the closest IHOP. Stiles doesn't answer the door this time no matter how long he waits.

He ends up eating a quarter of it by himself before throwing the rest out, and then he lurks in the park until nightfall.

 

* * *

 

He goes again the next day. And the next. And the next. Always with food.

Stiles never opens the door.

 

* * *

 

“I made a mistake,” Peter tells the door one day, sitting on the ground outside with the door at his back. There are breakfast burgers beside him, untouched. “This isn’t what I wanted. Power wasn't what I wanted.”

He pauses. A lady comes out four doors down and gives him a weird look, but she doesn't say anything as she locks her door and heads for the opposite stairwell.

He leans his head back and stares up at the persistently cloudless sky. “...I already had everything I could ever want.”

He wonders if Stiles can hear him.

 

* * *

 

Just once, he says, “I’m sorry.”

It doesn't seem adequate, especially when he isn’t sure if Stiles is even listening on the other side, so he doesn't say it again.

 

* * *

 

The full moon falls on a Saturday. Peter spends it curled up on Stiles’ doorstep until dawn.

He knows for a fact that neither of them sleeps that night.

 

* * *

 

When Peter rolls out of bed at the end of August one morning, he’s surprised when his knees buckle and he almost falls flat on his face. It takes a moment for him to realize that he’s forgotten to eat for the past several days despite his daily breakfast runs for Stiles.

Peter studies himself in the bathroom mirror. He’s admittedly become somewhat gaunt, and for a werewolf, that’s _bad_. His eating habits have admittedly deteriorated as much as Stiles’ have, and they can’t both be arguable cases for depression if Peter is going to help Stiles.

Not that he’s accomplishing much in that area at the moment. But he doesn't know what else to do either.

 

* * *

 

The Sunday before Labour Day, Peter brings breakfast per usual.

Not so usual, the door opens just as he’s raising a loose fist to knock, and there Stiles is, barefoot and wearing clothes that seem a size too big for him. The bags under his eyes are even more pronounced than before, and his features are strained.

“Why,” Stiles grounds out, and he’s standing straight but he gives the impression of wanting to sag against the doorframe. “Won’t you just _go away?_ We’re _done_ , Peter; which part of that don’t you understand?!”

Peter stays frozen for all of five seconds before his hand drops limply back to his side. It’s the first time he’s seen Stiles since that morning when-

“I wouldn't have sex with you,” The words are out before he can stop them because apparently, his time in Eichen House has done him in no favours when it comes to handling social interactions.

Then again, he stopped putting up a front when it’s just him and Stiles years ago. He sees no reason to start that again, and he’s just- he’s _tired_. Too tired to pick and choose his words, to deflect and redirect and wield sarcasm and insults and lies the way an Argent would a gun.

“Not unless you wanted it,” Peter hurriedly clarifies because that’s one of the biggest points that’s been nagging at him since Stiles slammed the door in his face. “I wouldn't... take advantage of you like that.”

“But you’d take advantage of me in other ways?” Stiles’ lip curls into a sneer. “Step in right after the Nogitsune left me fucked in the head, and you had one damaged idiot all yours for the taking-”

“ _No_ , I- no,” Peter breathes out a short sigh, carding a hand through his hair (Did he comb it this morning?) as he tries to think of a way to salvage this situation.

“I made a mistake,” He mumbles, and god, he’s just repeating the same things over and over again, but for once in his life, his flawless proficiency with words seems to have deserted him.

Stiles is still standing there though, looking about as forgiving as granite but he’s still _here_ , and Peter _can’t_ mess this up again.

“I thought, if I was Alpha again,” Peter explains falteringly. “I would be- I’d be stronger. I’d make _us_ stronger. No one would be able to harm either of us again. And Kate was just a means to an end. I would never have worked with her long-term; I would've killed her as soon as I regained my Alpha status. And you don’t necessarily have to kill an Alpha to become one; you only have to defeat them if you challenge one for the position. Derek had to kill me because he didn't defeat me; it was a joint effort, not a single Beta challenging an Alpha. I wouldn't have- I don’t like Scott, I’ve never kept that a secret, he’s far too soft for my tastes, never finishing off our enemies no matter how many times they almost kill one of us – those two pups Derek turned, they died because of Deucalion’s actions, and Scott let him go anyway – and he never appreciated-” _-you._ “-what he already had. But I wouldn't have killed him; I wouldn't do that to you. And I would never have hurt _you_.”

There’s irony in that statement, and it’s standing right in front of him. He couldn't possibly have hurt Stiles more than he already has. He didn't lay a single claw on the boy, but he might as well have eviscerated him anyway.

His reasons sound flimsy now, even to his own ears.

Stiles’ eyes drop to the space between their toes. “...I thought I protected you fine.”

Peter winces. “You- Stiles, you did. We were-” _-are-_ “-Pack. I considered you Pack.”

Stiles raises his head, expression as closed off as before, and not a hint of belief anywhere in it. “Clearly, you didn’t,” The boy shrugs, aiming for nonchalance and hitting defeated instead. “Pack’s supposed to be... enough, isn’t it? And I obviously wasn't enough for you.”

He steps back. Peter lurches forward, only for his outstretched hand to glance off an invisible barrier. “Stiles-”

“Go home, Peter,” Stiles tells him, shoulders hunching. The shadows of his apartment’s interior seem to wrap themselves around the boy the farther he retreats. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough?”

_-to me?_

Peter involuntarily stumbles back a step, and before he can say anything more, the door closes with a quiet click.

He remains motionless for a long minute before he stoops down and leaves the paper bag he’s been holding by the door.

“I brought muffins,” Peter offers, and his throat feels tight. “You should eat something, Stiles. You’re too thin.”

He doesn't expect an answer, and he doesn't get one as he turns and slinks away.

He doesn't linger in the park that day. Instead, he heads back to the hotel and goes back to bed.

His dreams are typically kinder to him than reality is these days.

 

* * *

 

Peter doesn't go back until Wednesday, which is when the new school semester begins. The streets are crammed with students and teachers alike, all armed with bags and coffee, and all trying to mow each other down in their sleep-addled attempt to shake off their summer lethargy and get to their eight AM classes on time.

He forgot to take that into account, the sheer number of people this early in the morning, and two minutes after venturing out into the busy streets, only to have to fight his animal instincts every step of the way, almost lashing out more than once because people won’t stop bumping into him in their haste, he’s forced to concede and duck back into the hotel to wait out the rush hour.

Which is why he gets the fleeting pleasure of catching Stiles coming down the stairs just as Peter reaches the apartment.

Stiles skids to a halt the moment he spots Peter. He’s still too pale, too thin, too much like he’s in desperate need of a solid month’s sleep, but he’s outside, and he looks to be on his way to school.

“...I thought you left,” Stiles mutters, and he looks at Peter like he honestly thought Peter took the first plane back to Beacon Hills that very same day.

Peter’s shoulders roll in a shrug under his coat. “You told me to go home.”

Distance and time and betrayal have not made Stiles any less quick on the uptake. The boy scoffs and glances away, stuffing the last of some textbooks into his bag.

“How sweet,” He slings his bag over one shoulder before turning in the general direction of Cornell. “But when I said ‘go home’, Peter, I meant ‘fuck off’, not ‘feel free to come back and continue your stalking’.”

Peter’s just happy – probably too happy – that Stiles is still capable of sarcasm. That there’s still a spark under all that exhaustion and misery, even if it only crops up every once in a while nowadays.

Stiles doesn't say anything else as he walks away, subtly huddling in on himself as they approach a gaggle of chattering students heading in the same direction. He tracks their movements with the same vigilance as Peter does, giving them as wide a berth as the sidewalk allows.

Once they turn onto a quieter road, it’s just the two of them. Stiles leads, and Peter follows a good six feet behind him.

“Stop following me,” Stiles grits out. The line of his shoulders is stiff, and his spine is rigid. Peter dutifully sidesteps until Stiles can see him from the corner of his eye, and only then does the boy relax ever so slightly.

It makes Peter want to break something.

“You should eat something before you go to school,” He says instead.

“Already did,” Stiles’ heart ticks tellingly. “Now _leave_.”

Peter doesn't. Stiles pulls to an abrupt stop and whirls around. Peter slows as well.

“What do you _want?_ ” Stiles asks again, and it sounds like a plea. Peter bites down on his tongue until he bleeds. “Forgiveness? Is that it? Fine, I-”

“Do you believe me then?” Peter cuts in, mostly because he doesn't want to hear another lie. “That I wasn't using you?”

Stiles stares at him. The breeze that whistles by ruffles his hair.

“Yes, yeah,” Stiles says eventually, and this time, it’s the truth. “But what does that matter? All you’ll ever care about is power, so. Using me, not using me – I'm still just a pawn for you to throw away when something better comes along.”

Peter’s hands clench and unclench at his sides. “...Scott told me you were dead.”

Stiles’ mouth tips down, and he glances to the side. “Yeah, you said-”

“I went crazy,” Peter continues heedlessly, and Stiles goes still. “I couldn't handle it. The orderlies had to increase my wolfsbane dosage until I could barely walk.” He pauses, trying to find the right words. “I stopped wanting to live. I didn't care about anything anymore, not until Scott told me that you were still alive. And-” He huffs out a bitter laugh. “And power. I stopped caring about that the moment I realized I’d lost you in the attempt. Power isn’t worth anything if I don’t have you, Stiles. It can’t even compare.”

Stiles’ features look like they've been carved out of ice. He doesn't speak. But he doesn't move either.

Peter takes a tentative step forward. “I’m not here for your forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. To betray my only packmate like I did is grounds for death amongst werewolves. I just- I want to help. You don’t look... well, Stiles. So anything you want me to do, I’ll do it.” He cants his head in consideration before amending, “Except leave.”

He falls silent, waiting for Stiles’ verdict with a trepidation he’s never felt even when facing off against Talia and her inevitable disapproval.

Stiles shifts his weight. And then he laughs, a harsh bark of a noise that’s not quite mirth.

“You’re a selfish bastard, you know that?” The boy accuses rather abruptly, and that much, he’s right about. Peter has always been selfish, always wanted more than life’s ever been willing to give him. “You're not here for me; you're here for you. You need Pack, and I guess- I guess you were comfortable with me, so now you’re back and basically shovelling the same crap you were giving me all those years ago in that parking lot. Pack would make you stronger, right? So you’ll have me, then you’ll go and kill an Alpha, and then once you don’t need me anymore, you’ll toss me to the-”

Peter doesn't mean to scare the boy. It’s partly why he’s been keeping his distance, because he knows his presence makes Stiles uncomfortable. But he can’t let this pass, if only because they’re going in circles and getting nowhere, and Peter _needs_ the boy to understand that – given the choice, ever again – he would never choose power over Stiles.

That’s a painful revelation he reached only after he lost everything.

So in the blink of an eye, he’s standing a foot away from Stiles. He doesn't touch the boy, not even to steady him when Stiles trips back with immediate apprehension, heartbeat rocketing, but he doesn't move back either.

“I would swear a blood oath to you,” Peter growls, ignoring the twist of resentment in his gut when Stiles automatically recoils from him like he thinks Peter will sink his claws into him given half a chance. “That I wouldn't choose power or an Alpha’s-”

The shove Stiles gives him forces him back a step, less from the strength of it and more from the sheer fury emanating from the boy.

“I don’t _want_ a goddamn blood oath!” Stiles snarls back at him with all the untamed rage of a feral tiger. “I don’t want _anything_ from you! _I just want_ -”

He stops. Chokes. His throat works like he’s trying to speak while someone’s strangling him.

What Stiles wants, Peter’s fairly certain he can’t give. Not anymore, or not right now, or not so easily.

He breathes in, and all he can smell is Stiles, filling his nose and mouth and lungs, and his wolf is whimpering and scratching to be let free, because Stiles is _upset_ , their packmate is upset, and the desire to provide comfort is pure instinct.

So before good sense or even self-preservation can stop him, he reaches out, and his fingers graze Stiles’ cheek, thumb brushing at the dark smudge under the boy’s left eye.

And Peter feels it, just for a second. Stiles shudders, and then, almost imperceptibly and like he can’t help himself, he turns his face into Peter’s hand and leans in just like he used to, trusting in a way that still leaves Peter breathless.

And then Stiles jerks away, and before Peter can even lower his hand again, the boy’s jammed something into his gut, hard enough that it feels like a punch. When he looks down, he sees a lighter pressed to his abdomen, and the smell of ozone and storms begin saturating the air around them.

Peter almost laughs.

“Touch me again,” Stiles spits out with eyes that gleam like the metal of a blade straight out of the fire from a blacksmith’s forge. “And I will light you up like a Fourth of July display. _Again_.”

Stiles bares his teeth, so much like a wolf even in human skin, and then he withdraws, forcefully propelling himself away from Peter. Without another backwards look, he stalks away down the sidewalk, hands tucked in his pockets once more, bag swinging at his side.

Peter doesn't follow him this time, only watching until Stiles rounds a corner and disappears from view. Then he flexes his hand, remembering the feeling of Stiles leaning into him.

The right thing to do here would probably be to respect Stiles’ wishes and bow out now while Peter still has legs to bow out on, no matter how painful it would be for the both of them. Maybe Stiles won’t ever heal from this, but it doesn't look like Peter’s doing much good hanging around him anyway.

Peter’s rarely been one to do the _right thing_ though. Stiles is spot on; Peter’s always been selfish. He wants Stiles for himself – he always has, ever since he _met_ the boy – and guilt doesn't change that fact. So yes, maybe he’s here in New York for himself, but it’s also true that he’s here for Stiles. He wants Stiles healthy again, smiling again, living again, and that’s-

On some level, that’s terrifying. Peter can’t remember ever being this invested in someone’s happiness, and he couldn't say exactly when Stiles became this important to him even if his life depended on it.

But what’s done is done, and he wouldn't change it even if he could. He needs Stiles in his life, and if there’s even half a chance of regaining that – _Stiles still wants him, even after everything_ – then Peter will damn well fight for it.

He won’t get anywhere of course until Stiles gives even just a little ground. And Stiles will only do that if Peter manages to out-stubborn him.

 

* * *

 

He never actually gets around to any further out-stubborn-ing though, and really, it’s all Kate’s fault.

“Hello, Peter,” The werejaguar says through sharp white fangs and deranged green eyes. “Missed me?”

It’s past midnight, two days after his last confrontation with Stiles. Peter is lurking in the park outside Stiles’ apartment building again, and he hasn't the faintest clue how Kate Argent managed to track him down, only that she appeared out of nowhere, and the only warning Peter had was a whiff of vengeful cat.

“I can’t say I have,” Peter smiles icily, arms loose at his side as they circle each other. “What is wrong with America’s hunters these days? They can’t even do their job properly and catch one runaway circus act.”

Kate’s lips peel back with scorn. “Yes, well, the Calaveras’ first mistake was setting my brother on my trail. Chrissy was always too soft at heart. He’s good at his job – had me at gunpoint three times in the past two years in fact – but when it came down to it, he just couldn't pull the trigger.” Her mouth forms a mockery of a pout. “Even like this,” She sneers, gesturing at her blue-skinned self with a clawed hand. “All he saw was his _helpless baby sister_. He’s... how should I put it... _sentimental_. And Dad never did manage to beat that weakness out of him.”

Peter will never like the Argents. Most of them, he downright hates. But he thinks he can feel at least a little bit of empathy towards Christopher Argent, who – in the span of those first two years in Beacon Hills – lost his wife, his father, his daughter, and he might as well have lost his sister. Of course, when it comes to Gerard and Kate in particular, it’s more good riddance to bad rubbish than anything else in Peter’s opinion, but it doesn't change the fact that the Argent family has been culled as much as the Hale Pack was in that fire.

Karma works in funny ways.

“Well, he’s an improvement on you,” Peter remarks flippantly even as he gets ready to leap at the first opportunity. “But older brothers aside, to what do I owe the dubious honour of your presence? Not that it’s not nice to see you Omega and packless but I thought you would've at least had the good sense to leave the country after the fiasco in Beacon Hills.”

Kate snarls, limbs twitching like she’s just barely containing the urge to attack. “That _fiasco_ wouldn't have happened at all if you mutts hadn't dragged Allison to her death in the first place! This all started because of your family-!”

“ _My_ family?” Peter cuts her off with a rumbling growl that resonates deep in his chest. “ _My family?_ _You're_ the one who seduced my nephew and used him to burn my family to the ground for no reason! If we’re pointing fingers here, the only one in the wrong is you!”

“You all deserved it!” Kate sneers, and a wave of old homicidal rage washes over Peter. “You're nothing but monsters that should be wiped from the face of the planet!”

Peter’s mouth twists into something that feels crazed even to himself. “Pot meet kettle, sweetheart. If you really believed that, you would've done the world a favour and killed yourself when you had the chance.” He cants his head in transparent contempt. “But death can put certain things into perspective, can’t it?”

There is visceral hatred on Kate’s animalistic features. “I wouldn’t _be_ like this if it weren’t for you! You're the one who turned me! I should've done the world a favour and killed _you_ when I had the chance!”

Peter grins. “Trust me – you're not the first to think that.”

Kate’s claws dig audibly into the skin of her palms. “Oh don’t worry, Peter, I don’t mind; I can settle for being last.”

And that’s the only warning Peter gets before the werejaguar lunges towards him with murderous intent in every line of her feline body.

Peter snarls and meets her in midair, aiming for her jugular and belly, but the instant they clash in a whirl of fangs and claws, he knows he’s made a possibly fatal mistake.

They are both Omegas, but Peter is a born wolf and has more experience as a were’ than Kate will ever have. One on one without even being ambushed, Peter is sure to win. Those are the only things he takes into account, and that is why he miscalculates, because while that is all true, it is also true that Kate has been taking far better care of herself than Peter has.

He manages to rip into Kate’s side during the first pass, but not as deep as he wants to, and in return, Kate swipes at his neck, misses, and scores four deep gouges into his shoulder instead. They hit the ground again at the same time, but Kate recovers her balance in a heartbeat while Peter staggers, feeling dizzy even as he keeps his eyes on the former hunter.

There is triumph in Kate’s fanged smirk.

Peter grinds his teeth together and readies himself for the next rush. He can still win this. True, he’s spent over two years drugged up on wolfsbane in a moonless cell, and his muscles seem to have atrophied to some degree, and he forgets to eat most days, and he hasn't had a regular sleeping schedule since Eichen House, but he can still-

Kate springs at him with a roar that shakes the looming trees around them. Peter tries to dodge but Kate is faster and turns with him, tackling him to the ground and tearing into him with ravenous bloodlust.

Peter bites back a scream when she crushes three of his ribs and punctures one of his lungs, and he retaliates by sinking one set of claws into her back, unfortunately missing her spine but shredding skin, muscle, tissue, and tendon anyway before throwing her off of him and sending her crashing into a tree.

He scrambles to his feet, trying to will his body into healing faster. His clothes are a mess, and there’s blood everywhere, too much of it his.

Kate flips back onto her feet – _damn cats_ – and Peter takes a step forward, planning to turn the tables and get the jump on her this time, but then he stumbles, and his vision swims, and he knows he’s already lost when Kate’s laughter reach his ears.

“Oh Petey,” She coos in a sickeningly sweet voice as either the ground drops out from underneath him or he drops to the ground. He can’t tell the difference anymore. “You forget – I’m still a hunter at heart, and we’re rather partial to wolfsbane.”

He opens his mouth to snark something back – he’s always hated not having the last word – but nothing comes out, or if something does, he doesn't hear it, and darkness is closing in from all sides until he can’t see anything at all.

He tries – desperately – to claw back some semblance of awareness, but it slips from his fingers like quicksand, and even his hearing is going now. Kate is still talking but he can barely make it out anymore.

Peter struggles one last time, reaching for something – anything – that could tether him to consciousness even as it gets harder and harder to breathe. His wolf releases a broken howl, or maybe he does, a drawn-out, desolate cry for help, and something at the back of his mind flickers like light from a jar of fireflies, but before he can even think to puzzle over what it could be, a jolt of electricity sets his nerves on fire, and for an endless, agonizing moment, he feels like he’s burning to death all over again.

And then even that fades out, blessed oblivion swallowing him down instead, and Peter is almost glad to let himself drown in it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops. This may have turned a bit... dark. And it went on longer than I planned so there’s going to have to be one more chapter after this. At least, but here’s hoping it’ll end at four; fingers crossed.

Peter wakes up – not for the first time – naked and dripping ice water. His muscles are still spasming from the last round of electricity despite having been shocked into unconsciousness for the fifth time now.

“Finally awake again?” Kate’s voice drips sadistic satisfaction from somewhere on his left. “Took you long enough. I was starting to get bored.”

Peter moans weakly from where he’s been strung up with wolfsbane-infused chains. Everything hurts.

He’s been here for days. Possibly a week now. Or maybe not quite. Either way, every time he wakes, Kate is there, carving into him with knives, electrocuting him, torturing him, right up until Peter blacks out from the pain, only to be forced awake again for yet another session.

 _“I’m going to make you regret everything you've done to me,”_ Kate promised the first time Peter came around after losing so pathetically in the fight against the former hunter. _“I’m not going to kill you just yet; I’m going to make you suffer first. I’m going to break your body, and then once I’ve done that, I’m going to go fetch your lover boy, and I’m going to break your heart too. After that, if you're very lucky, that’s when I’ll let you die.”_

Peter thrashed against his shackles after that, tearing fruitlessly at the chains until he made himself bleed. He didn't care what Kate will do to him, personally, but if the bitch lays one finger on _Stiles_...

He struggled in vain though, and after the first two times Peter lost consciousness, he figured so long as he doesn't break, Kate won’t move on to Stiles.

And in the meantime, maybe Peter will be able to find a way to escape, or perhaps Stiles will see the signs of battle at the park and- and- and do _something_ to better protect himself.

“Am I boring you, Peter?” Kate interrupts his thoughts, and when Peter doesn't raise his head – can’t even find the energy to lift his chin from his chest – clawed fingers tangle in his hair and forces his head up and to the side so that his throat is forcibly bared for her.

Peter blinks sluggishly, squinting past the liquid dripping into his own eyes. He swallows with difficulty, and he tastes blood. Tastes smoke. Each breath rides on the distant echo of his family’s screams.

He doesn't even know where he is, only that it’s mostly empty and far from civilization since nobody came running when he couldn't help shouting in pain during the last round. Probably a warehouse of some kind, maybe even an old hunter hideout of Kate’s stashed with essentials in case she ever needed emergency supplies.

Hunters. Only they would consider torture equipment to be an essential.

“Well we can’t have that, now can we?” Kate is musing now, eyes glittering with something that makes Peter cold all over. Or maybe that’s just the blood loss. “It would make me a bad host.”

The werejaguar lets go, and Peter’s head ends up lolling against the metal bar behind him where his chains are attached to. At least this way, he can watch Kate amble over to the collection of tools she’s spread out on a nearby table. When she turns back, it takes a moment for him to locate what she’s going to use on him next, mostly because it’s small enough to fit in the palm of her hand.

It’s a lighter. Peter chokes out a laugh even as a thread of fear knots in his stomach.

“Think this is funny?” Kate enquires pleasantly as she approaches again, raising the innocuous lighter in her hand.

Peter licks his cracked lips and smiles at her the exact same way he once smiled at Derek when his own nephew found enjoyment in literally burning the wolfsbane out of Peter. “I think I can handle a little fire.”

Kate smirks. It’s like déjà vu because that expression looks a hell of a lot like the one Derek wore when he exchanged the lighter for a godforsaken blowtorch.

Huh. Maybe his nephew’s teenage lust for Kate way back when wasn't entirely the latter’s fault after all. Don’t people say that like attracts like or something akin to that?

It’s a rather nauseating theory, and it induces a brief overwhelming urge in Peter to hunt his nephew down and rip his throat out. Only briefly though. Derek hasn't been worth his time since the stupid boy chose his dick over his family. Besides, at the very least, Peter would like to rip Kate’s throat out first. Permanently this time.

“Can you?” Kate looks honestly curious. Thankfully, she doesn't go for a blowtorch, or maybe she doesn't have one on hand. She stops in front of him and flicks the lighter on.

Peter’s heart stutters traitorously in his chest when that tiny, harmless-looking flame moves towards his right eye, and he knows that Kate can hear it.

“Can you, Peter?” Kate repeats almost kindly as Peter clenches his fingers around the chains until his knuckles turn white, bracing himself for the inevitable. “Can you handle a _little fire_?”

The werejaguar’s lips curve up even further into something infinitely more deranged. “Let’s test it out then. It’s bound to be... melodious.”

And then she thrusts the flame right up against the corner of Peter’s eye, and one, two, not quite three seconds later, something pitifully similar to a sob rises in his throat just as that terrible, familiar heat slams into his nerves, and then he’s screaming and writhing and screaming some more as everything washes away in a red-hot haze of unending, searing agony.

 

* * *

 

Time passes in a fog for Peter. He wakes to pain, and he slips away into a void of shadowed nightmares in pain, and the sensation of burning never leaves him. He screams until his throat is raw, until he’s choking on blood, until he can’t even cry anymore, and even then, fire continues eating through layer after layer of his skin, of his tissue, of everything underneath until it hits bone, until his healing factor can no longer keep up.

Until all he can do is hang there and burn.

 

* * *

 

“You should've stayed in your coma,” Kate remarks one time, nails digging harshly into the blackened skin along his right side. Peter makes a gurgling noise, trying to flinch away, but that only makes the werejaguar unsheathe her claws and hook them in further.

Peter convulses uncontrollably, wishing more than ever for the sweet reprieve of oblivion.

Kate laughs softly, extracting her claws and petting over his injuries like one would pet a dog. Her hand on his body makes his skin crawl, especially when she reaches his neck and traces his jugular with one finger. He’s so damn vulnerable right now.

“Look at you,” Kate croons, patting the charred skin of the right side of his face. He can no longer see out of his right eye anymore. “Have I finally broken you? Should I go fetch your boy toy and play with him for a while?”

Peter involuntarily jerks against his chains at that. His hearing picks up the irregular drip-drip of liquid, and from his position, he can just make out the puddle of blood that’s pooled on the patch of floor under his limp frame.

“Don’ touch’im,” He mumbles hoarsely, and somehow, he finds it in himself to flick his clouded gaze up to meet Kate’s malevolent green eyes and hold them. “Y’won’ touch’im.”

She won’t. Peter will destroy her before that happens, even if he has to raise himself from the dead yet again to do it.

Kate cocks her head. Some of the amusement fades from her features, replaced by a mix of disbelief and contempt. “...Well what do you know? Peter Hale is actually in love.”

Peter coughs raggedly but he doesn't look away from the monster in front of him.

Kate can’t break him.

You can’t break something that’s already broken.

 

* * *

 

Kate never stops talking. She likes to taunt him, with both cruel hands and poisoned honey words, but Peter doesn't really register anything she says after a while. When he’s cognizant enough to think, it’s usually something along the lines of wanting to be put out of his misery.

Well, almost. He never begs for her to stop, not once. Never begs to die. Even when he thinks he can’t handle another second, he bites his tongue until that bleeds too and doesn't say anything, clinging deliriously instead to the thought of Stiles, of what would happen to him if Peter gives in, gives up.

Kate promised, after all. Once Peter folds, she would go after Stiles, so even if it means burning for the rest of eternity, Peter isn’t going to let that happen.

He isn’t.

In his occasional lucid moments, he thinks, with a sardonic sort of amusement, that perhaps this is his penance.

(And if that is so, he wonders if Stiles will forgive him now.)

 

* * *

 

There is screaming. Peter surfaces long enough to discern that much before he goes under again.

 

* * *

 

Minutes, hours, countless instances later, Peter wakes again, and it takes him a while to realize that something is different. His muscles are trembling with cramped exhaustion – nothing new there – and there is no part of him that isn’t bleeding or mutilated or broken in some way – also nothing new – but.

But... he’s no longer chained and hoisted in the air. He’s on the ground, and there is something wrapped around his shoulders, softer than anything he’s felt in a long time but scraping acutely against his wounds all the same.

And somewhere above him, someone is spewing a truly impressive string of swearwords.

 _Kate_ , Peter recalls dimly, and his hands are _free_ , and that’s all he needs to know.

Blindly, he lashes out, sinking claws into whatever he can reach, and his wolf crows a guttural howl of triumph when he feels skin give way and fresh blood seep beneath his nails.

A hiss of pain sounds above him but nobody hits him back. Instead-

“It’s okay, Peter, I’m here,” The same voice murmurs on a shaky exhale. “I- I’m here; I found you. So you just rest now, alright? I’ll take care of everything else.”

And even in his current condition, even if it takes a few moments to place it, Peter can still recognize that achingly familiar voice, and he is abruptly, cruelly, plunged into despair.

“No,” He whimpers, trying to pry open an eye, trying to push himself up. “ _No_.”

Because Stiles isn’t supposed to be here. Peter didn't give in; he could've taken more pain, more torture. Kate shouldn't have gone after Stiles yet.

“Shh, it’s alright,” Stiles tells him, and his hand is so very gentle when they flutter over Peter’s forehead and smooth back his hair that Peter begins wondering if maybe he’s hallucinating, because surely only his own hallucination of Stiles would have the boy touching him again like Peter is something precious and priceless and cherished?

And that’s good. Hallucinating is good. That means Stiles isn’t here, and if Stiles isn’t here, then it should be okay to indulge himself, right?

A cool, comforting palm presses against the damaged half of his face, and even though it still hurts, still _burns_ , Peter can’t help leaning into the touch anyway.

“’iles,” He slurs out happily. “’iles.”

Something wet splashes onto the ridge of his brow before skating sideways into his hairline. Before he can puzzle out what it is, he feels lips brush against his forehead, and it settles him again.

Makes him smile.

“Go to sleep, Peter,” Stiles cajoles, and there’s something funny about the tone of his voice, thick and tight like he’s holding back a great surge of emotion. “Everything will be better when you wake up.”

Peter doesn't want to sleep. He wants to protest because this is nice, this hallucination, this is already _better_ , and he doesn't want to lose it just yet.

But his mind is already drifting again, and coupled with the soothing, rhythmic sweep of Stiles’ fingers through his hair, Peter doesn't stand a chance against the beckoning lure of lethargy that soon drags him under once more.

His last thought is of the hope that his mind will be able to conjure up Stiles a second time when he inevitably wakes up again.

 

* * *

 

He’s drenched in sweat and ravaged by fever when he comes around again, and he doesn't know where he is, only that he isn’t where he was before, and someone is wiping him down with something damp and cold, and it feels so good except it’s nowhere near enough to douse the painful, all-consuming heat simmering underneath his skin.

A glass is pressed against his lips, water trickles onto his tongue, and he’s swallowing greedily before he can stop himself, gulping down mouthfuls to slake his parched throat, only to gag when he drinks too fast, but he’s still so thirsty, and he _needs_ -

A hand rubs his back, and only now does Peter register the fact that he’s slumped against somebody’s chest, gasping and coughing up almost all the liquid he just attempted to ingest.

“Easy, Peter, easy,” It’s Stiles – _StilesStilesStiles_ – cradling him close, and Peter doesn't understand how that’s possible.

His breathing evens out a little, and the glass is held up to his lips again.

“Slowly, Peter,” Stiles instructs, and Peter obeys even though he wants nothing more than to drown himself in water, just to wash away a feeling comparable to that of having been buried alive in the desert.

Several dozen miniscule sips of water later, what meagre strength Peter still has lags, and even drinking becomes too much for him. Stiles eases him back down onto a- bed? Where did the bed come from? – and despite not really being able to see anything, vision fogged over like he’s peering through mist, Peter still feels Stiles withdraw his hands, and that’s not-

“’on’ go,” Peter fumbles clumsily – desperately – with one hand, and he only relaxes again when long-fingered hands catch his own, squeezing lightly and not letting go again.

He isn’t sure what’s going on, and he’s still in so much pain _everywhere_ , but Stiles is here with him, caring for him – _searchedforhimfoundhimsavedhim_ – and that is all that matters.

 

* * *

 

Time passes in a blur of fluctuating temperatures and muted agony. Every time he manages to become hazily aware of his surroundings, his thoughts are always muddled and disoriented, and more than once, his blistered, branded skin – coupled with his body’s recurring need to throw up a black substance that even Peter in his sickly state can recognize as leftover wolfsbane – gets bad enough that it brings forth unbidden tears, hot salty drops that leak out of his eyes even as bile burns its way up his throat. Worse still, his limbs always feel heavy and weighed down – _sleep paralysis_ , a part of his mind whispers – and it makes him panic because his inability to move on his own never fails to remind him of his six-year-long coma.

But also too, Stiles is always there. Every time Peter is forced out of a restless slumber by nausea or pain, Stiles is a constant at his side, soothing him as much as possible whenever he needs to heave up his stomach lining, helping him drink more water, feeding him lukewarm soup that’s only slightly uncomfortable on his tongue, and even regularly bathing him with a cold, wet washcloth that feels like temporary heaven on his skin.

Stiles makes the pain bearable, a solace that Peter had to go without the last time he was stuck in his own body and left utterly helpless, and when he wakes and finds Stiles still there – still with him, still taking care of him and watching over him and protecting him – each and every single time, he is always, always indescribably relieved.

Everything hurts, and anytime he isn’t asleep, he’s never fully _awake_ either. He’s weak and ill and he literally cannot function without depending on Stiles for everything, yet at the same time, Peter honestly hasn't felt as happy as he is right now – with Stiles at his side, anchoring him, and anchoring his wolf – since before his deal with Kate took everything he had away.

(He wonders how long it will last.)

 

* * *

 

The day Peter finally wakes and is actually aware of the wooden ceiling above him, the calm atmosphere around him, and the slumbering heartbeat at his bedside, it is raining.

For a long while, Peter simply lies there, listening to the pitter-patter of raindrops against the windowpane. It’s peaceful, in its own way. The world feels suspended in time.

And then he blinks, shifting under clean sheets that smell like home, and he only needs to turn his head a little to the left to catch sight of Stiles, curled up in a desk chair like a cat with his neck bent at an angle that he’ll definitely be regretting when he rouses. His clothes are rumpled, he’s still too thin, he looks exhausted even in his sleep, and he’s drooling a bit onto his shirt.

Yet he’s still the most beautiful creature Peter has ever laid eyes on.

He breathes in deeply through his nose before gingerly levering himself upright. His whole body is sore from head to toe, and the twinges he feels from even the tiniest of movements make him wince, but...

Tentatively, he reaches up with one hand and touches the corner of his right eye, closing his left just to make sure he really can see out of his open one. And he can – it feels a bit like a human punched him in the eye, but aside from that, everything is crystal clear – yet he could swear Kate literally burned his right eye down to nothing but an empty, mangled socket. Not even werewolves should be able to recover from that.

He looks down at his hands next, spreads them, studies them. For the most part, Kate didn't touch his hands, so he’s not that surprised to see them unmarred and intact. His wrists and arms have healed as well, no signs of lingering welts from the chains anywhere.

He runs one hand along his side, and then hastily stops when he finds himself too sensitive for even a simple touch. Eyes only examination it is. He’s naked from the waist up, and he's only wearing a pair of boxers.

His skin, Peter observes with no small amount of mystification, is pink. Not exceedingly pink or anything, but unnatural all the same in that he’s usually tanned, and this...

Honestly, it looks like new skin, recently grown back, which would explain why there are absolutely no burn scars that he can see, no disfigurement at all, but, well, last time he checked, that is _not_ how werewolf healing works. Besides, with how badly Kate tortured him – burned him – for _days_ on end, it should've taken at least a few years for everything to heal properly. It took over six years last time around, admittedly without any pack bonds whatsoever to speed up the process, but even with a packmate close at hand this time... unless a significantly larger amount of time than Peter assumes has passed in his half-catatonic condition...?

He looks over at Stiles again.

Packmate. And not just any packmate. A human packmate who also happens to be a _Spark_.

Peter reaches up again, touching his face this time, checking for the roughness of scars. He grimaces at the instant flare of pain that unfurls up and down the right side of his face, but the brief contact is enough for him to note the mostly – bizarrely – smooth skin, with only some remaining coarseness spread across his cheekbone. He has a feeling those will fade soon enough as well.

His beard, Peter lightly fingers his jawline with rueful amusement, is gone. He’ll have to regrow it if he wants one again.

He lowers his hands and looks at Stiles again. The boy is so pale, which only makes the circles under his eyes that much darker.

A sense of unease settles over him, and even though he can hear Stiles’ heartbeat, Peter still can’t quite hold himself back from leaning forward and resting a hand on Stiles’ nearest wrist.

He’s cold, Peter realizes even as he counts the seconds – about two and a half seconds, but still, that’s too long even for a sleeping person – between the pulses under his palm more carefully, and he’s groping for one of his blankets before his muscles object to the apparent workout, and logic kicks in to remind him that on the mend he may be but he’s still about as weak as a newborn foal.

Peter has only ever seen Stiles overdo it with his innate magic once, and that was already one too many times. They were all captured by Codeless hunters, every one of them from werewolves to banshee to kitsune, to be sold to the highest bidder on the supernatural black market. They even grabbed Chris and Allison, though what they were planning to do with them, Peter didn't know.

Except Stiles. Time and again, people underestimate the boy who runs with wolves, and time and again, they've paid for it in blood.

The hunters didn't bother abducting Stiles, didn’t know he was a Spark either. Their mistake. Their _last_ mistake really – Stiles tracked them down, let himself be dragged in after mouthing off to them one too many times, and then he used magic to melt the locks on the cages keeping everyone imprisoned, broke the lines of mountain ash, and got the whole Beacon Hills Pack out. When the hunters rushed them with guns however, with the wolves weak from wolfsbane, and nobody else in any condition to fight, Stiles simply drew on his Spark and literally set every last one of them on fire.

Not even Chris complained about having to help hide the remains of fellow hunters later, especially since Allison went home with more than one broken bone at the hunters’ hands.

They all survived that day because of Stiles, something Stiles paid for in return by falling into a coma for two weeks immediately after encasing the last of the hunters in a wreath of flames that didn't extinguish itself until nothing but ash and bone remained.

Peter spent all fourteen days sitting at Stiles’ bedside at the hospital, reading out loud to him and striking up one-sided conversations with him and just generally making sure Stiles knew he wasn't alone. He had no desire to let the boy feel even a hint of what Peter went through for six years straight.

Is it the same now though? Healing Peter so thoroughly must have been taxing to say the least, and yes, Stiles’ Spark has to have grown even stronger over the years, but healing the lacerations and broken bones and burns and who knows what else Kate did to his body? Restoring his entire eye _and_ his eyesight?

He tugs at Stiles’ wrist. He’s loath to disturb the boy’s rest but-

“Stiles,” He murmurs urgently, and his voice comes out raspy. At least it doesn't hurt. “Stiles, wake up. _Stiles_.”

And Stiles does wake, with disconcerting sluggishness but he wakes nonetheless. His eyelashes flutter, his chest expands with a deeper breath, his heartbeat picks up just a little, back to safer levels, and when his eyes finally open, they linger half-lidded at some point over Peter’s right shoulder, blank and thousand-yarded, and it makes Peter’s grip tighten.

Stiles blinks in response, and then his gaze finally focuses, zeroing in on Peter with unwavering intensity.

For a long moment, neither of them moves. Peter doesn't let go; he remembers the threat from last time but surely circumstances have changed at least a little.

Stiles stirs at last, a flicker of discomfort crossing his face when he straightens out his neck and stretches out his legs. He frowns and scrubs a sleeve over his mouth before shoving a hand through his hair and looking like he’s trying to shake off the last vestiges of sleep.

He doesn't shake Peter off though.

Tired amber eyes find him again. They sharpen when they give him a critical up-down scrutiny before a sigh is released and the boy leans forward, elbows balanced on his thighs.

“How are you feeling?” Stiles asks softly, and the lack of hostility in his tone makes something in Peter relax.

“Better than I expected,” He brushes his thumb against the skin of Stiles’ pulse point. “Your doing I suppose?”

Stiles’ shoulders roll in a half-hearted shrug. His free hand extends, stopping an inch away from Peter’s face. “...Can I?”

Peter tilts his head into Stiles’ palm, ignoring the sting. “You never have to ask that, Stiles.”

Stiles’ lips thin, and a cascade of emotions cross his face, too rapidly for Peter to identify. He gets a whiff of anger though, along with sorrow, and a coil of guilt follows at its heels.

He isn’t entirely sure what to make of that combination.

Fingers graze the remaining traces of scars on his cheek, and a momentary relieving chill sweeps over his skin like the kiss of an ice cube.

“You're going to be alright,” Stiles says at length. At the same time, Peter admonishes, “You're already tired; don’t waste anymore of your magic on me.”

The blink at each other. This close, Peter can see the tiny red veins in the sclera of Stiles’ eyes.

Stiles looks away first. His hand falls away from Peter’s face, and his gaze drops to where Peter’s hand still hasn't relinquished its grasp.

“...I couldn't find you,” Stiles confesses after a long, tension-filled minute of silence. “Kate took you, and I couldn't find you for fifteen days.”

Fifteen days. Half a month. That’s... actually horrifying but, well, it could've been worse. And...

“You looked for me for fifteen days?” Peter enquires almost brightly. He smiles at the instantaneous long-suffering exasperation levelled on him. It looks instinctive too.

“That’s _not_ the point here,” Stiles snaps out huffily. Peter doesn't care. Stiles looks infinitely more animated like this, and when the boy retreats into himself again seconds later, Peter’s sorry to see it go.

“You came and got me though,” Peter points out. “And then you healed me.”

“It’s been almost two months, Peter,” Stiles reveals, and there’s something broken in his voice, in his expression, something that makes Peter reach out and cup Stiles’ jaw, wishing emotional pain could be taken away like physical pain could be.

Stiles stiffens but doesn't pull away, and it sends a rush of exhilaration through Peter.

“It’s been almost two months,” Stiles repeats in too quiet tones. “Since I found you and brought you back here. You've been... really sick. Really hurt.”

“But you never left,” Peter counters like he’s giving an assurance. Stiles looks like he needs an assurance right now. If nothing else, he reeks of guilt, and for heaven’s sakes, this isn’t his fault, but of course, Stiles would spiral down that path.

(If a part of Peter is selfishly delighted about Stiles being so affected by Peter’s abduction and subsequent torture, nobody needs to know.)

Stiles shoots him a scowl that almost seems offended, and then he deflates again, pulling away from Peter entirely, much to Peter’s disappointment.

He goes distant, more like how he was during those weeks Peter kept coming by with food, before Kate happened, but there’s no denying the pack bond glowing between this very moment. It’s still fragile compared to what it once was, but it’s enough to give Peter hope that – at the very least – he won’t be kicked out as soon as he can walk again.

“What happened to Kate anyway?” Peter asks, steering them back into safer waters. He’s pushed enough for now; he has no wish to lose the present cordiality they have between them and return to the wary antagonism and apathy from before.

An inferno of pure, unadulterated rage slams into Peter’s sense of smell, temporarily startling him with how vicious and feral it is. He stares wide-eyed up at Stiles, whose jaw is flexing as he wrestles his temper under control again.

“She was made to understand that taking you was a very stupid decision,” Stiles states with such monotone finality that Peter has a feeling that Kate suffered for every last second that she had Peter in her clutches.

“She’s no longer a problem,” Stiles continues flatly, slouching back into his chair. “Not one you have to worry about anyway. Just...” His expression softens. “Just concentrate on getting better, okay? Get some more sleep, and I can go make you some food.”

Peter would actually prefer to quiz Stiles some more because the way he phrased it, it sounds like Kate is still alive, and Peter would really like to know why, not to mention he’d also like to hear some other news of what’s happened and what’s been going on, like how did Stiles find him, and will Stiles get better with some rest himself, and is Ithaca crawling with hunters yet, and an assortment of other questions that Peter would like the answers to.

But then Stiles extends a hand again and pokes him once on the forehead. A second later, a wave of drowsiness washes over him, and his eyelids start to droop.

“What-” Peter grumbles as he sags back against the pillows.

“It’s like the magical equivalent of a sedative,” Stiles sounds almost amused. “It doesn't do more than knock you right out if you're tired so you don’t have to worry. You’ll wake up again once you've recovered a little more; trust me.”

Peter’s already succumbing to sleep again but that last bit seems important to him even though he can’t quite remember why.

“Always,” He manages to mumble even as he begins dozing off.

He hears a tense pause, followed by a world-weary sigh, and then he feels Stiles’ fingers card through his hair with something a lot like helpless affection.

“You’re going to be the death of me one day, Peter Hale,” Stiles mutters, a wealth of resignation in his voice, and that’s not right either, Peter never wants to be that, but...

He’s comfortable and warm, and everything smells of safety and Pack and mate and home.

He sleeps.

 

* * *

 

When Peter wakes again, he’s less sore all over, his skin is no longer as sensitive, he’s starving, and there are pancakes. Embarrassingly enough, he wolfs down half the entire syrup-covered stack before he can force himself to slow down long enough to breathe.

Stiles sits in the desk chair all the while, a pancake of his own in front of him, partially eaten by the time Peter is chewing on his seventh.

The sight of it makes him pause.

“You should eat,” Peter prods after a moment of just watching Stiles pick uninterestedly at his breakfast.

Stiles glances up. “I’m not really that hungry. I ate earlier.”

His heart doesn't skip. Peter wants to ask, _how much earlier?_

“You've been out for another four days,” Stiles says abruptly like he knows what Peter’s thinking and doesn't want to give him a chance to bring it up. “It’s the twenty-first of November today.”

Late November. And he was taken early September.

Peter lowers his fork, feeling a little numb. He hates losing time.

“How did you find me?” He asks out loud, shunting aside all thoughts that make him want to hunt Kate down all over again and rend her limb from limb. “How did you even know?”

Stiles arches an eyebrow. “The entire _neighbourhood_ heard that racket that night; the park was closed off as a crime scene for a long while, what with the blood and torn clothing left everywhere.” He gives up on his pancake, puts his plate on the nightstand, and plucks at a loose string on his sleeve instead. “...I went out as soon as I realized what was going on but you and Kate were already gone. I figured one of the people fighting had to be you, and I overheard a lady telling a cop that she thought she saw someone with long blonde hair when she looked out her window at the park. It didn't exactly take a very far stretch of the imagination to guess Kate.”

He stops again, gaze sliding over to the window. The skies are still overcast, and there’s a light drizzle sprinkling down from the heavens.

“It took several tracking spells,” Stiles continues with a frown. “Kate knew what she was doing when she nabbed you, but I tracked you down eventually, to an abandoned warehouse in the middle of nowhere, separated from civilization. It’s outside of Ithaca. Anyway, I got there, and...”

He trails off, and something haunted darkens his eyes. Peter touches the back of his hand, and when Stiles doesn't pull away, he laces their fingers together, delighted when Stiles allows it.

“I take it I wasn't at my best,” Peter says dryly. “My hair must have been a disaster at the very least.”

He smirks when Stiles rolls his eyes.

“It’s still a disaster,” Stiles corrects, wrinkling his nose in the general direction of Peter’s hair. The spike of good humour fades. “But you were...” He motions at Peter’s face. “-burned all over. Badly. Beyond even third degree burns. And it took me so long to repair all the damage. For a while, I even thought I wouldn't be able to give you back your eye, and then I thought I wouldn't be able to give you back your sight because there are just _so many nerves involved_ -”

He breaks off, swallowing hard. His features are tight with stress, more so than ever, and his eyes stay glued to the sheets under their joined hands.

“I wanted to take you to the hospital,” He finally admits. “Awkward questions be damned because at least _doctors_ know what they’re doing. All my magic does is feel out what’s wrong and fix it. I don’t know what part goes where, I just... _fix_ it. And there was _so much_ damage-”

Peter cuts him off with a squeeze of his hand around Stiles’, and Stiles twitches and stares at their tangled fingers like he forgot about the physical contact.

“Stiles, you healed me,” Peter reminds him readily. “The what-ifs don’t matter. And you know I’d always prefer you over any doctors.”

It’s true. Having strangers – and then that damn nurse – putting their hands all over his paralyzed body for all those years – even when it was just to provide assistance – was as repulsive and excruciating as enduring his catatonic state was.

Stiles doesn’t reply right away. Instead, he detaches their hands but doesn't let go, turning Peter’s hand over until his palm is facing up. Slender fingers trace invisible lines along Peter’s wrist, as if Stiles is remembering the abrasions there, and Peter shivers at the feather-light touches.

His wolf just stretches and preens under the attention.

When Stiles does speak, the subject matter is a bit of a non-sequitur. “Why didn't you just go home, Peter?”

It takes a moment for Peter to connect the dots. He scoffs as the handful of stilted conversations from the past summer flows to the forefront of his mind. “There’s nothing in Beacon Hills for me without you there, Stiles.”

It’s terribly honest of him but these days, he’s all out of lies.

Stiles goes still, though his fingers don’t move away from where they’ve found Peter’s steady pulse.

“No matter how mad I was, I never wanted you to go through anything like what Kate did to you,” Stiles’ hands withdraw, and when he looks up, his gaze is shuttered like it hasn't been since before Kate. Peter’s heart sinks. “But Peter, none of this changes anything. It doesn't change the fact that I don’t trust you. It doesn't change the fact that we’re not Pack. If we ever were.”

Peter noticeably recoils. Stiles stands, gathering up his plate.

“Focus on getting better,” Stiles tells him, avoiding meeting his eyes as he turns for the door. “You can stay for as long as you want. Just...”

He seems to lose what he wants to say midway, and in the end, he says nothing more and only shakes his head.

Peter is silent right up until the boy reaches the door.

“Stiles,” He calls out, sounding borderline defeated even to his own ears but quietly determined all the same. Stiles stops just inside the doorway but doesn't turn around. Peter lifts a hand and rubs briefly at his right eye before offering a sad smile at Stiles’ back. He’s glad Stiles doesn't see it.

“Thank you,” He says instead, and the sheer sincerity of it makes it hard to breathe. He’s rarely ever meant anything as much as he means those two words right now, because regardless of everything – Kate and Eichen House and suspicion and betrayal – Stiles still came after him without hesitation, still found him and nursed him back to health and – even now – allows Peter to stay in his den, despite the fact that Peter is probably well enough to at least hobble out back to his hotel (is his room still available?).

Stiles lingers for a second longer before taking his leave, silent as a ghost.

Peter moves his plate of unfinished pancakes to the bedside table before settling back against the headboard and letting his thoughts wander as he listens to Stiles’ heartbeat move through the apartment.

Inside, his wolf curls possessively around the delicate pack bond thrumming at the back of his mind, radiant and so very much alive.

There’s still a chance, Peter thinks, and his hands curl into the fabric of the bedspread.

There’s still a chance.

 

* * *

 

“Don’t you have school?” Peter enquires a day and a proper – completely cold – shower later, now well enough to shuffle out to the kitchen and at least sit at the dinner table. He can put on a shirt (one of his own, much to his disappointment, but Peter can’t complain since Stiles went to the trouble of tracking down his hotel room and retrieving his luggage; neither of them says anything about _Stiles’_ clothes amongst Peter’s belongings, and Peter’s just grateful that Stiles hasn't taken them back) now with only minimal on-and-off discomfort.

Stiles is at the stove, dutifully stirring pasta sauce. The air between them isn’t exactly what one would call relaxed but it’s still relatively better than before Kate happened.

“I dropped my courses for the semester after the first week of searching for you,” He divulges bluntly, adjusting the temperature. “There was no point. It wasn't like Kate was gonna give you the five-star treatment so I assumed that I’d be busy with-” He flicks a look over his shoulder at Peter. “-even after finding you.”

Peter muses over that, absently studying his iced coffee. “She could’ve already killed me.”

“She didn’t,” Stiles returns with an iron certainty that makes Peter wonder if he was the only one who still felt their pack bond over the years after all, no matter how tattered it became.

“What happened to Kate anyway?” Peter enquires next, tone idle but eyes sharp on Stiles. He sees the boy’s back muscles shift beneath his shirt. It’s plaid, for once. Just like old times. “Because I have this strange feeling that she’s still alive.”

Stiles begins mixing in the pasta before he speaks again. “...She is. Alive.”

He turns and smiles directly at Peter, and it is a smile that reminds him unconditionally of the Nogitsune at its worst, dark and livid and utterly merciless.

“But I can guarantee that she’s wishing she isn’t.”

He turns away, and Peter releases a slow breath that he didn't realize he was holding. He finds himself smiling as well, an echo of the one on Stiles’ face.

“Like I said though,” Stiles continues in milder tones. “She’s not a problem anymore. You’ll never have to lay eyes on her again.”

Peter takes a sip of coffee. “...And if I want to?”

Never let it be said that Peter doesn’t have the courage to face down his past demons. Especially when he has unfinished business with those demons.

Stiles’ head tilts but he doesn't look at Peter again, and he doesn't stop cooking. “...I could take you to see her once you're healed, I suppose.” He reaches up to a shelf to retrieve two plates. “It could be... traumatizing though.”

Peter grins, all teeth. “Traumatizing? For me?”

Stiles shrugs as he dishes out the pasta. “I used fire.”

Various scenarios flit through Peter’s mind, none of them boding well for Kate. “You are a bit of a pyromaniac, aren’t you?” He murmurs distractedly.

There’s an unexpected screech of metal on metal as Stiles sets the pot back down on the stove with more force than strictly necessary, and then he’s swinging around to pin Peter with a look that would be labelled ‘deeply hurt’ if it isn’t equally furious at the same time.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Stiles bites out.

Peter straightens cautiously, blinking in the face of the one-eighty mood change. “Nothing, Stiles, I-”

“Bitch deserves it anyway,” Stiles interrupts with a sneer. “In fact, I consider it karmic justice-”

“Stiles,” Peter cuts in more forcefully. Stiles glowers at him, shoulders a rigid line. “I’m not complaining. Whatever you did,” He can feel his eyes burn a supernatural blue. “I hope it hurt.”

Stiles glares for a moment longer before relenting ever so slightly. “...You’re not comparing me to Kate?”

“Of course not,” Peter refutes, an inkling of what’s bothering Stiles beginning to dawn on him. For god’s sakes, really? “You’re nothing like Kate.”

Stiles huffs out a laugh that holds very little humour, but he’s moving again, picking up the plates of pasta and rounding the counter to join Peter at the dining table. “Oh, I don’t know; I did set you on fire that one time.”

“I know we’ve never actually talked about that,” Peter glances from his meal to Stiles’ much smaller portion before catching the boy’s reluctant eye. “But I was feral at the time; I wasn't going to stop – not even after Kate – unless somebody made me stop. Surely you must know, Stiles, that I don’t blame you for taking the necessary measures to do exactly that? And as for using fire specifically, well,” He quirks a grim but appreciative smile. “That ruthless loyalty of yours is something I have always admired, and I _did_ go after Scott and Lydia.”

He watches Stiles watch him, guarded and cagey as any threatened alley cat.

Perhaps Peter should have brought this issue up sooner. He just... never thought Stiles might have a few residual concerns about the whole matter. On hindsight however, considering how far Stiles is always willing to go for those he cares about, and how much he loathes seeing them hurt in any way, it’s not so surprising that the memory of lobbing a Molotov cocktail at Peter all those years ago may have resurfaced and stuck around once the two of them became friends against all odds.

That he _still_ cares about Peter enough to let it slip even now is...

Peter hides a smile behind a forkful of pasta. Stiles’ lip curls, which probably means he sees the expression anyway.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” The boy warns without the buoyancy of a quip, the faintest hint of a snarl threading his words instead. “I’ll take you to see Kate once you're better. If you keel over from the smell of her, don’t think I’m carrying your ass all the way back here a second time.”

Stiles is many things. A liar has always been one of them.

 

* * *

 

Another two weeks later, Peter is almost back to full strength. Well, for a given value of full strength anyway. He’s still mostly an Omega since Stiles is either stubbornly refusing to acknowledge their pack bond or he’s so far in denial that he honestly doesn't consciously feel it. But Peter can walk, and he can last most of the day without getting tired, even his appetite is better than what it was before Kate kidnapped him, and for now, that’s good enough for him.

What isn’t good enough is Stiles’ daily routine. For one, he cooks for Peter – always delicious food, some days healthier than others depending on Peter’s physical condition – but he never eats much of it himself, or he tries and ends up dumping most of it into the garbage anyway, and on some nights, when Stiles thinks he’s asleep, Peter can hear the boy blitzing frozen foods in the microwave.

(They sleep in different rooms, Peter in Stiles’, Stiles in the guestroom – a far cry from even just their prior arrangement.

Stiles is pulling away.)

Stiles has always been good at taking care of other people. Not so good when it comes to taking care of himself, and for a while, Peter was the one who changed that, who looked after Stiles like Stiles would look after him.

Stiles won’t allow that anymore. Not right now at least; Peter’s tried. He got the cold shoulder for three days, though on the bright side, he also didn't get kicked out.

That’s something at least. Progress, however small.

 

* * *

 

Stiles drives Peter out to see Kate on a Thursday. They go to a rusty old warehouse in the middle of nowhere three miles outside of Ithaca where Peter was previously held captive.

He smells the burnt flesh before they even get close to the door.

It’s dark inside, until Stiles flicks on a light switch connected to a single eerily dim light bulb straight out of an interrogation scene from a Mission Impossible movie.

Peter walks in behind Stiles, and there’s a pile of torture equipment stacked haphazardly in the far corner that makes his gums itch.

Kate is in the middle of the room, blindfolded and tied to a chair with rope around her neck, shoulders, waist, and knees that all look tight enough to cut off her circulation. Her blonde hair is matted with dirt and sweat and dried blood, her face is in a similar state with the addition of tear tracks, and one revolted whiff of her tells Peter that she’s been sitting in her own waste for weeks.

That’s not the worst of it.

Her arms, Peter takes in with a stunned sort of morbid fascination, are _gone_. Burnt clean away from just above the elbows down, leaving nothing but blackened stumps, long since cauterized to prevent her from bleeding out.

It’s probably a kindness that she’s unconscious right now, dead to the world without the mercy of being dead altogether.

Peter has never been a man inclined towards kindness when it comes to those who have slighted him.

He looks to his right. There is an almost frightening cast to the shadows playing across Stiles’ frostily unforgiving features. The boy’s eyes gleam with a predatory light as they survey Kate’s motionless form.

There is – unsurprisingly – something very wrong with Peter in that he finds Stiles ridiculously attractive right now.

(And it makes him wonder if this means anything, if the extremes that Stiles has gone to in reaping his vengeance against Kate on Peter’s behalf means anything at all.)

(It has to.)

“Harsh,” Peter comments placidly, hands still stuffed in the pockets of his coat. His voice echoes a little in the large space around them.

Stiles hums noncommittally. “You think?” He asks rhetorically with detached callousness. “I didn’t have time to come back after leaving with you.”

Peter’s eyebrows rise. “She’s been here alone all this time?”

Stiles nods once. “I put a bit of...” He sucks in a considering breath through his nose. “...preservation magic in her. Enough to keep her alive, keep her brain awake and functioning, but not enough to stop her from feeling the increasing hunger and thirst and pain and even the drop in temperature. She feels all of it, no matter how bad it gets. She just isn’t allowed to take that final step and die.”

Left to suffer without even the remotest chance of death for two months. That’s... a terrifyingly imaginative punishment on a level that even Peter wouldn’t have thought of. He’s a werewolf through and through; he’s always been the type to hunt his enemies down and torment them a little if he has the time but ultimately kill them – preferably in as messy a way as physically possible – in relatively short order. He can be infinitely patient with the chase, but once he has his prey between his claws, his wolf is always eager to revert to full animal instincts and simply tear into its quarry without delay.

Stiles on the other hand is perfectly content with taking his sweet time from beginning to end, every detail planned down to the very last triple-checked second, and when _he_ hunts, it’s always with a nasty sort of creativity that most overlook or dismiss right up until it comes back and bites them in the ass.

As Kate evidently did.

Peter inhales a deep breath. Beneath the stench of excrements, fear hangs heavy in the air, coupled with agony, anger, and desperation.

Most prominently though, there is defeat.

It is delicious.

He looks over at Stiles again, only to find the boy staring back this time. There is a broken madness in his eyes that Peter knows he himself reflects on occasion, something the Hale fire put in him, and the Nogitsune put in Stiles, yet at the same, it is also a madness intrinsically their own. Neither of them was born quite right for this world.

Peter smiles. Stiles cocks an eyebrow before looking away with a roll of his eyes, something easing in the line of his shoulders. “I’m glad you're pleased, creeperwolf. Now whatever you want to do to her, could you hurry up and do it? This place stinks, and if we stay here for any longer, I'm not gonna be able to get the smell out of my clothes.”

“Too late,” Peter advises. “Any werewolf could smell it even if you wash your clothes multiple times. I’d throw them out.”

Stiles gives him a bitchface of epic proportions before stalking away to where Kate’s equipment is amassed, leaving Peter more or less alone with his family’s murderer.

Peter turns back to Kate and approaches on near silent footsteps. The werejaguar doesn't even stir. He extends one clawed finger and cuts away the blindfold, letting it drop carelessly to the floor. And then, with a flick of his wrist, he yanks the woman’s head up by her hair, baring her throat even as a pained groan slips from her bloodied lips.

Pain-glazed eyes flicker open. They widen several belated seconds later when her brain fully registers Peter looming over her.

Peter flashes a bloodthirsty fanged grin, listening to the werejaguar’s suddenly pounding heartbeat. “Hello, Kate. Missed me?”

 

* * *

 

“Just kill me!” Kate snarls with an unmistakeable undercurrent of exhaustion. She trembles, and Peter doesn't think it’s entirely due to fear. Her body is caught between shock and simply too much pain.

“All in due time,” Peter assures, prowling around her once before stopping in front of her again.

There’s a clank from the corner across the room. Peter doesn't bother looking but Kate does, and the palpable upsurge of terror in her scent every time she catches even a glimpse of Stiles is... mostly hilarious, perhaps a little insulting, but also very entertaining.

Kate Argent is more afraid of Stiles than she is of Peter.

The werejaguar focuses on him again, and her heartbeat evens out a little, as if not seeing Stiles helps her control her fear to some degree.

“What do you want then?” Kate sneers, really nothing more than a feeble twitch of her lips. “Another _apology_? You never were very creati-”

She breaks off into a wet gurgle first, only for her voice to pitch up to a scream when Peter digs a set of claws into her ribcage, hooks them around one rib, and _pulls_. It snaps with a sickening crack.

Kate screams long and loud before descending into tortured sobs that edge on hyperventilation, whole body jolting spasmodically even as she struggles to _stop_ moving.

Peter releases her, idly examining the red-streaked bone peeking out of her torso even as blood drips from his hand to the warehouse floor.

“I’m creative enough, don’t you think?” Peter enquires with deceptive serenity. “I’m simply a little more... hands-on than you are. Of course, if we’re talking about creativity, neither of us tops Stiles.”

Kate continues shuddering, unable to stop. Peter wonders if she’s going to pass out again.

That won’t do.

Honestly, a part of Peter wants to leave her here, just like this. She’s already a shattered mess, in so much agony that there isn’t much else he can throw on top of that to make a significant difference. There’s still the smallest bit of fight left in her, but another few weeks – a month at most – in here will break her for good, and then Peter can ask Stiles to cancel his magic. Leaving her here to suffer until even her mind fractures would be so very gratifying.

Yet at the same time, his wolf craves her blood, wants to see it gush out of her throat, yearns to personally – finally – put an end to this woman who has been a threat to either him or his for so damn long.

And in the end, Peter has always been a creature of habit.

“Stiles,” He calls out, gaze never leaving Kate. He doesn't have to say anything else before the electric tang of ozone swells in the air before dying again. There’s no visible change but Peter knows that the magic keeping the werejaguar alive is no longer active.

It takes a long while before Kate regains her breath again, body sagging against her bonds. She shrinks back as much as possible when Peter takes a step forward.

“You really want to die, Argent?” Peter enquires almost conversationally as he catches her chin with one hand to force her gaze up to meet his. Green eyes widen. A heartbeat trips. He smiles, a dark, ominous slash across his face. “Wish granted.”

That’s the last thing he says before he lets instinct take over and goes for that white, exposed throat.

 

* * *

 

It doesn't take Peter five minutes to finish it. There is absolutely no way Kate will be able to pull a Lazarus this time either – half her bones have been crushed beneath Peter’s own hands, her head has been messily severed from the rest of her, and the pool of blood that her remains are drowning in is getting wider by the second.

Peter takes a calming breath and a step back, rolling his neck to loosen the muscles there. Then he tugs out his handkerchief from his back pocket to wipe his hands. It’s probably not enough to clean off all the gore stuck to his skin, but it’s a start.

“The wards are up,” Stiles reports from behind him, and when Peter glances over his shoulder, he sees the boy leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. “Are you finished?”

Peter takes one more look down at his handiwork before he turns on his heel and walks away. He feels no triumph, not really. Satisfaction perhaps, relief even, that it’s finally over, but other than that, he doesn't feel much of anything. “Yes. Are we burning the whole place to the ground?”

“Obviously,” Stiles squints indifferently at what’s left of Kate’s corpse before he produces a towel and a water bottle and tosses both at Peter. “If you get blood on my jeep’s upholstery, I’ll dump you in a ditch somewhere. Now get out of range of the wards if you don’t want to get caught inside it.”

And then he pushes off the doorframe and strides away without sparing another backwards glance.

Peter makes his way over to Stiles’ signature blue jeep, watching Stiles walk the perimeter of the clearing. The scent of roiling thunderstorms sits like a raincloud over them.

Two minutes later, Stiles joins him, and fifteen seconds after that, the warehouse spontaneously combusts, flames reaching for the skies yet never crawling beyond the wards that Stiles set.

Neither of them moves until there is absolutely nothing left but ash and melted steel, and then even that is gone when the wards converge inward and consumes everything within like the maw of a black hole, leaving nothing but a clearing of wilted grass and trees behind.

“Let’s go,” Stiles says, moving to the driver’s side.

Peter slides into the passenger’s seat without a word.

The drive back to Ithaca is silent. Peter spends it wondering what will happen now that everything is over.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


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